#Set Up Tracking and Monitoring Systems

[quickmetrix]

10 simple step to social media analytics success

Understanding the Importance of Social Media Analytics Define Your Goals and Objectives Identify Key Metrics to Measure Choose the Right Social Media Analytics Tools Set Up Tracking and Monitoring Systems Collect and Analyze Data Gain Insights and Make Data-Driven Decisions Monitor Competitors and Industry Trends Optimize Your Social Media Strategy Measure and Track Progress

[ridingtorohan]

hey!! i saw ur recent post about the tulpar crew walking in on reader touching themselves, could u do the same but vice versa?

Ask and ye shall receive!

𓇻 ft. tulpar crew x gn reader

𓇻 content. 18+ content, minors dni. possible second hand embarrassment. masturbation, sexual propositions, the whole shebang. this is a sequel to this post. this one can definitely be read on its own though. lightly implied that reader didn't accept swansea or daisuke's offers in the prequel but that can be left up to interpretation. jimmy's definitely happened though.

𓇻 enjoy! feel free to like, reblog, or send in asks!

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎Masterlist - Want to Join my Taglist?

Curly is just so damn tired. Tired of the reports, faxes, checking the straps in the cargo bay. One of the few downtimes he gets is when he can sit and watch the constellations pass on the common room monitor. The Augira, Constantine and Mitena were all ones that he recognized from this sect of the system, all penned from the eyes of Saturn and further.

Movies are a scarce commodity on the screen, given Jimmy's track record of not wanting to hook the systems up, but it helps him nod off most times.

Working out, though? Working out he can do. Pony Express has given him permission to bring his weights on board, alongside a slew of magazines and audiobooks to listen to.

While Curly doesn't think of himself as a gym rat, those moments to himself are some of the best. Nothing but the burn of iron, the strain of his muscles with each rep. It's methodical work, one that sets his mind at ease and off of reports for once.

Some days, he can get Jimmy in on the action, but most of the time his co-pilot bemoans it. Each time they worked out, the stretches between the next session grew longer.

He's pleased when you agree to attend a few sessions with him. By then, it's almost amicable between you two, as if him walking in you didn't even happen. He's very much acted the part of a dutiful captain, though, he can't help his own eyes from wandering when he sees you stretch. Can't help himself from putting his hands firmly on you when he goes to correct your stance. It doesn't linger, doesn't wander, but goddamn, does he wish he could throw propriety out the window.

It's after one of his solo workout sessions when he chooses another way to unwind. Really, that's the only explanation for it. One that he tells himself anyway, because the strain of propriety is heavy. If he still thinks of you from time to time, if your face crops up in his thoughts while he touches himself, that's his business.

The only places you'd catch him in the act is either in the bathroom or his room.

Curly has always been imaginative, thoughts trailing to roads not travelled, paths that burn out of sight. Of you, sprawled out on the bed, and how he wished he had stayed. How he'd have given anything to hike your legs over his waist and kiss you senseless when he slid against you.

As it always is, every fantasy comes to an abrupt end. Every night that he had dreamed of walking in to find you waiting, you found him. Wifebeater drenched in sweat, towel draped over his shoulders, every line of his well built body on display, hand fisted around his cock.

There's a difference between wishing you'd walk in on him and actually receiving it.

A painful, terse moment lingers between you two, tension so thick he swears he can cut it. His hand completes the motion, wiping from his base to the tip, each breath deep. Despite how uncomfortable he felt (for more than one reason), he also felt more prepared. "Hold on a minute." He'll cover himself, boxers and uniform hiding himself from view.

If you believe you could flee from the room without Curly following you, you're dead wrong. He'll track you down, put this to bed once and for all. He'll catch you, half-dressed in his uniform, blue workwear draped around his waist, hand against the wall. "We have to talk about this."

Regardless if you stay or leave, not talking about it is no longer an option. You've both seen more of each other than was warranted, then what you both signed up for, but dammit he wants this. And he's so tired of shying away from things that he wants. From the person that he wants. All because of some higher-ups sitting cozy back home saying that it's wrong to do. He can't do it anymore, not when he feels like he's on the cusp of something great for once in his life.

"I know that what happened isn't what either of us expected," he'll start, voice low and perhaps far too sensual to be appropriate considered his half-dressed state. "And frankly, we can keep it to ourselves, pretend we never saw it." Biting the bullet is one of the fewest things he's done in life, but this is something that he wants to do. By fractions, Curly leans in closer, his voice entering a low murmur. "But... it doesn't have to be. We could give each other a.. hand, so to speak."

Routine. That's one thing that the Tulpar is good at. Routine. Each meal time, the rigid necessity of clocking in and out on time, even bathing. Pony Express may be a shit machine but it's well oiled, worked raw by the people under it. Delivering the payload is a smooth easy task because they all work on it together.

Part of that routine is shift work. Jimmy, ever the night-owl, works evening and night shift. This makes it so incredibly easy to avoid him if you wanted, especially since he walked in on you tending to yourself.

But he doesn't let you forget it. Since that moment, there's a smoldering heat in his gaze, eyes hooded as he watches you go about the room. Watched as you did your tasks, always standing too close - enough that you can get a whiff of his woodsy cologne, or feel his arm against yours.

He's almost helpful, even when your tasks really don't necessitate the need for another. His hands linger, hot against your uniform, his hips against the back of yours whenever he steadied you, or reached above you. Each word a rumble in his throat.

Except there's never really any change to talk to him about what happened. Not when every moment is tense, fraught with unresolved desires and need. Not when Daisuke or Curly walk into the room, silencing the burning questions and words that haunt your lips. Jimmy seems especially disgruntled about the interruptions, getting almost snappy towards the other crewmembers.

All in all, you rarely have a moment to speak with him. It's the furthest thing from your mind when you step out of the shower, more than eager to collapse face first into bed and sleep the weariness away.

If you're the sort to bring clothes into the washroom to change into, the absence of them is noted fast. No amount of scrounging around turns them up either. At a loss, it's to your sleeping quarters to wrangle up something else to wear.

Except you're very much not alone the second you step into your door. The door swishes behind you but you're effectively grounded, eyes drawn to the man lounging on your bed.

His head is tilted, messy hair falling across his hooded eyes, a dark and smoldering look to them. A slow stretch of a smirk crawls across his face, a pleased look darting into his eyes.

Jimmy is just as bare as the day he was born, an arm languidly thrown over your pillow. A leg bent up, not at all coy about having himself on display. His other arm is resting against his thigh, one hand smoothing along his flushed cock in a slow, slick motion. His fingerstips are all but slathered in precum - or actual cum, as you might suspiciously think when you look at your clothes haphazardly thrown onto the floor, looking sticky.

"There you are. Took you long enough." He breathes out your name, chin tilted upward, something primal lurking deep in his eyes. Jimmy clicks his tongue, ever the disapproving copilot. "You should know better than to keep someone waiting." Despite the curt, wanting tone to his words, he doesn't move towards you. Letting you go to him. Like he knows you will.

"I've been thinking," each word is low and deep, husky in his mouth. Jimmy's hand very much doesn't stop moving, stroking himself as you're rooted to the spot. Whenever you glance down between his thighs, his smirk deepens. "That you owe me for what I did for you."

It's not like you could dance around the topic forever; each touch, every interrupted conversation, it all would have culminated to this. Jimmy waiting for you, eager to put his hands back on you, to feel you tremble and shudder beneath him as he pulls you apart.

The thing was, you realize, it'd be terribly easy to leave him here. To not respond to his advances. The door was to your back and even Jimmy had enough sense not to walk out nude in pursuit of you. It'd be easy to walk to another crewmate's quarters and pilfer clothes. It'd be laughed off, brushed under the rug just as another incident, excused as you being unable to enter your room because of 'technical difficulties'.

The thing is, though, you can clearly remember how his hands felt, the way he moved. How Jimmy watched you with the same intensity now, his eyes a dark promise of a repeat experience, if not more.

You don't really want to refuse such an offer, do you?

Try as Anya might, she can't get the image of you out of her head. The sounds you made, how your hands moved. She'd tried to be civil, though how quickly she averts her gaze and fidgety hands betray how much it affected her. Nerves, she'd try to excuse it. Nothing ever related to you, of course, because that sounds too much like blame. She blames herself for walking in on you masturbating, and blames herself for wishing that she hadn't left.

But by god, did it make her needy and so sexually frustrated. She's found every excuse under the sun to touch you then jerk back, at war with herself. She has to act professional. Doesn't she?

Something about you, seeing you like that, had coiled something burning inside of her. Something hot, that festered low in her gut.

For the most part, she can act professional. Mostly. But she can only get so far from letting her eyes trace your silhouette, from sitting on her leg whenever you talk to her. It's risky business, even riskier when she decides to keeps a few tokens of yours. Things that smell like you, even distantly - papers, a bracelet. Things that you've lent to her before.

It's been a while since she got laid, since she's even been attracted to anyone. But something about you just sets her on fire, burning with want and need. She needs you like she's never needed anyone before.

Realistically, Anya knows it's because of the forbidden nature; because of the close proximity day in and day out, but there's something so tantalizingly beautiful about it too. She's a sucker for it.

One of her favourite places to get off is in the medbay; she can lock herself in it - but she doesn't. Because it's so much more tantalizing when she thinks about you walking in. When she thinks about pressing you against the desk and using her medical expertise on you. She wants to hear you - taste you - feel you. Is that too much to ask for?

That's exactly where you catch her. Her breath coming out in hot breaths, eyes shut tightly, uniform pulled open. It'd be so easy to mistake it for something else, such as the room being hot - if it weren't for where her hands were.

One has all but ridden up her shirt, rolling the peak of her breast between her fingers. The zipper has gone all the way down to her waist, one hand curled tightly in her underwear, motions jerky as she fingers herself.

Every inch of her wishes that it was you, your fingers working her over, touching her clit and prodding at her walls. She feels so close, having edged herself for a bit until you came in.

It was just to ask her her input on supper, or for a nonsensical question that very well could have waited for another moment.

The door swishes shut behind you and her eyes flutter, dark as she looks up at you, flush all but crawling up her neck.

Seeing how you look at her - how you came to look for her- needing her for something, a question halfway on your lips - and it's her undoing. She moans your name, guttural and hoarse, hips jerking, dripping over her knuckles. "Wait-" Singlehandedly one of the better orgasms she's had, better than when she pined endlessly.

When her senses come back, Anya is breathless and shaken - and you're long gone.

She's not letting you go this time. Not when a new, burning question lodges inside her. Did you like what you see? Did you wish you weren't there?

Anya approaches your door at night, knocking crisply and when you grant entrance, she stands there, the atmosphere almost palpably awkward. She takes a few steps closer, feeling flighty and desperate, eyes searching your face, whispering your name.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," she whispers, voice low in the room, nerves biting at her throat. She can't not know anymore. "But I'm... glad that you did."

"Is this.. tension between us all in my head, or, do you want me too?"

It's one thing after the next. Couplings came loose, Daisuke's homework is not up to par, the lightbulbs need to be changed but no one seems capable of doing it. It all amounts to a sort of frustration winding up in him. Swansea has enough grace not to lash out at anyone, but it's there, palpable in his tone.

By some saving grace, you're willing to help him out with his work. Passing over screwdrivers and wrenches, new copper wire as he needs it. Swansea has noticed that you're attentive and eager like that; willing to help. Sometimes, he really wished you were his intern instead of Daisuke, not that he blames the kid.

He really needs a damn beer.

Wanking out his frustrations as a teenager and young adult had really suited him just fine, and with each passing day, it becomes a far more likely possibility.

It surely does not help when every little moment with you feels charged. Knuckles brushing when you supply him with mechanic tools, or when his arm brushed against your thigh as he steadied the ladder for you.

Swansea finds his gaze lingering.. on how your uniform bunches, the sway of your walk, the excited chatter to your tone when you've launched into some spiel or other. Each look he gives you is in quiet contemplation, though perhaps not as obvious as to why.

He's long since brushed off your curious questions.

It's when Anya outright slipped and fell over an oil spill that Swansea called it quits. There's only so many small annoyances that he could take before it became a hazardous snowstorm.

After it's suitably cleaned, he tried to find a place to tuck himself away. Keyword: tried. Something else always needed to be fixed, and he had enough years under his belt to know the ins and out of everything. Leaky faucet? Hold his glass. Vaccuum given up? He's got it. Curly, goddammit, he has it.

It's so grueling to find a moment of peace, so he takes what he can. That just so happened to be in the utility room, frustrations to a boiling point.

He knows his body, knows just the right way to stroke himself, the perfect amount of pressure. Learned it long since his youthful days, since his amicable divorce from his wife. Sure, it might feel mechanic at a certain point, but to him, it was a small reprieve. A getaway that only booze came close to.

Foreskin pulled back, his head is tucked low, eyes heavily lidded, fingertips pressing under the tip of the head just like he likes.

Swansea has himself sticky with precum when the utility door rattles and open. "Swansea, I found your keys-"

His eyes track up, eyebrows raised. Whatever hasty attempt you may have made, it's blocked by the aging mechanics of the utility door. It's from an older rig, one that still uses keys instead of the security bars that the medbay and cockpit use. Which means it's faulty as shit.

He sighs, head tipped back, eyes still on you. "That's on me for not leaving a sock out there," he grumbles, voice gruff and husky. A reference to how he told you to ward off people when he caught you masturbating earlier.

Moving his hand from his cock, his gaze is surprisingly steady, arm draped against the back of the chair. "Listen, kid, I won't say shit about this if you don't. Keep it jammed tight better than a olive jar when making margaritas. But." He rolls his neck, feeling a satisfying crack run through him. "I can show ya a few things that the ole cap' or other men won't, if yer interested."

Daisuke has been, for lack of a better word, edgy around you. Hovering, then trying to create distance. He can't seem to decide how to act around you. Not when he's seen you that way, pleasuring yourself. When he wishes you'd involve him.

He's seen plenty of naked people before, got hard over them, but wow, did you take it to the next level. Even how you tilt your head or roll up your sleeves has him in an outright tizzy, straining hard in his pants.

Daisuke often has to excuse himself from your presence. Ignoring Swansea's rolling eyes and knowing scoffs is easy; ignoring you is harder.

It's during one of those mundane tasks, where you're prattling about your work to the others, his eyes glued to your form, absorbing every word that he can't take it anymore. Excusing himself, he pops right out of the room, awkwardly striking towards his bunk.

But of course that is the exact moment you decide you need to return his gameboy - or comic, or whatever he had lent you a few weeks prior.

Daisuke is completely in the groove, pants folded down, back propped to the wall, knees folded and lips parted with each heavy breath. He's always been loud, noisy and boisterous. But his saving (and falling) grace is that he's also often playing movies in his room, and what muffled sounds you may hear from the other side of the door is easily chalked up to that. (Or perhaps, you knew.)

You catch him like that, hand fisted around his lean cock, shirt ridden up over his stomach, his movements sharp and jerky. It's bad enough that you walk in on him like this - but another to hear Daisuke rattle out your name, the sound breathy and full of want coming from his lips.

He's a poor, flushed mess, eyes wide when he looks up at you - and it's so plainly obvious to the both of you that he didn't call out because he heard you come in.

"I- I can totally explain." Except he really can't, can he, when he has his dick in his hand, just moaning your name literally seconds ago.

Any attempt to backtrack out of the room will be greeted with a hasty, "Oh my god, no, pleasewait!" As he all but tries to leap from his bed, tripping over his pants in his haste to get to you. Daisuke is nothing but determined and will try to talk to you about this, even if you manage to successfully flee.

Choosing to stay has him utterly red-faced, almost ashamed as he rambles through a tirade of, "Okay, so," punctuated by repeated, stumbled phrases before he manages to get out, "So, me calling out your name just now - total accident. Unlessyoudon'twantittobe? But, like, I definitely understand if you want to leave but I'dreallyratheryoustaybecause I really can't stop thinking about you and, - oh hey, is that my gameboy? You can just set it-- that's not important! I just. Really don't want you to leave. Please."

[fatehbaz]

was thinking about this

To be in "public", you must be a consumer or a laborer.

About control of peoples' movement in space/place. Since the beginning.

"Vagrancy" of 1830s-onward Britain, people criminalized for being outside without being a laborer.

Breaking laws resulted in being sentenced to coerced debtor/convict labor. Coinciding with the 1830-ish climax of the Industrial Revolution and the land enclosure acts (factory labor, poverty, etc., increase), the Metropolitan Police Act of 1829 establishes full-time police institution(s) in London. The "Workhouse Act" aka "Poor Law Amendment Act of 1834" forced poor people to work for a minimum number of hours every day. The Irish Constabulary of 1837 sets up a national policing force and the County Police Act of 1839 allows justices of the peace across England to establish policing institutions in their counties (New York City gets a police department in 1844). The major expansion of the "Vagrancy Act" of 1838 made "joblessness" a crime and enhanced its punishment. (Coincidentally, the law's date of royal assent was 27 July 1838, just 5 days before the British government was scheduled to allow fuller emancipation of its technical legal abolition of slavery in the British Caribbean on 1 August 1838.)

---

"Vagrancy" of 1860s-onward United States, people criminalized for being outside while Black.

Widespread emancipation after slavery abolition in 1865 rapidly followed by the outlawing of loitering which de facto outlawed existing as Black in public. Inability to afford fines results in being sentenced to forced labor by working on chain gangs or prisons farms, some built atop plantations.

---

"Vagrancy" of 1870s-onward across empires, people criminalized for being outside while being "foreign" and also being poor generally.

Especially from 1880-ish to 1918-ish, this was an age of widespread mass movement of peoples due to the land dispossession, poverty, and famine induced by global colonial extraction and "market expansion" (Scramble for Africa, US "American West", nation-building, conquering "frontiers"), as agricultural "revolutions" of imperial monoculture cash crop extraction resulted in ecological degradation, and as major imperial infrastructure building projects required a lot of vulnerable "mobile" labor. This coincides with and is facilitated by new railroad networks and telegraphs, leading to imperial implementation or expansion of identity documents, strict work contracts, passports, immigration surveillance, and border checkpoints.

All of this in just a few short years: In 1877, British administrators in India develop what would become the Henry Classification System of taking and keeping fingerprints for use in binding colonial Indians to legal contracts. That same year during the 1877 Great Railroad Strike, and in response to white anxiety about Black residents coming to the city during Great Migration, Chicago's policing institutions exponentially expand surveillance and pioneer "intelligence card" registers for tracking labor union organizing and Black movement, as Chicago's experiments become adopted by US military and expanded nationwide, later used by US forces monitoring dissent in colonial Philippines and Cuba. Japan based its 1880 Penal Code anti-vagrancy statutes on French models, and introduced "koseki" register to track poor/vagrant domestic citizens as Tokyo's Governor Matsuda segregates classes, and the nation introduces "modern police forces". In 1882, the United States passes the Chinese Exclusion Act. In 1884, the Ottoman government enacts major "Passport Nizamnamesi" legislation requiring passports. In 1885, the racist expulsion of the "Tacoma riot".

Punished for being Algerian in France. Punished for being Chinese in San Francisco. Punished for being Korean in Japan. Punished for crossing Ottoman borders without correct paperwork. Arrested for whatever, then sent to do convict labor. A poor person in the Punjab, starving during a catastrophic famine, might be coerced into a work contract by British authorities. They will have to travel, shipped off to build a railroad. But now they have to work. Now they are bound. They will be punished for being Punjabi and trying to walk away from Britain's tea plantations in Assam or Britain's rubber plantations in Malaya.

Mobility and confinement, the empire manipulates each.

---

"Vagrancy" amidst all of this, people also criminalized for being outside while "unsightly" and merely even superficially appearing to be poor. San Francisco introduced the notorious "ugly law" in 1867, making it illegal for "any person, who is diseased, maimed, mutilated or deformed in any way, so as to be an unsightly or disgusting object, to expose himself or herself to public view". Today, if you walk into a building looking a little "weird" (poor, Black, ill, disabled, etc.), you are given seething spiteful glares and asked to leave. De facto criminalized for simply going for a stroll without downloading the coffee shop's exclusive menu app.

Too ill, too poor, too exhausted, too indebted to move, you are trapped. Physical barriers (borders), legal barriers (identity documents), financial barriers (debt). "Vagrancy" everywhere in the United States, a combination of all of the above. "Vagrancy" since at least early nineteenth century Europe. About the control of movement through and access to space/place. Concretizing and weaponizing caste, corralling people, anchoring them in place, extracting their wealth and labor.

You are permitted to exist only as a paying customer or an employee.

[dakusan]

S K Z F A L L I N G I N L O V E

stray kids ot8 x reader | this is how they fall—soft, slow, and all at once.

🌙 synopsis: love doesn’t always arrive loudly. sometimes it slips in through laughter, late-night ramen, bookstore rambles, or the way your eyes crinkle when you’re proud of them. this is the moment it hits them. the heartbeat they’ll never forget. the thought they can’t shake. the shift from “i like her” to “oh. i’m hers.” get ready for bashful glances, overthought texts, unsent voice notes, and loyalty so deep it stings. this isn’t just a headcanon set. it’s a love letter. from them, to you.

💌 a/n: welcome to another sunday softdrops. hello to everyone who’s ever accidentally fallen in love with someone who tied their hoodie wrong or smiled weird during ramen. this is for you. this is cinema. this is spiritual collapse. this is accidentally locking eyes while brushing your teeth and now he’s pacing the hallway writing poetry in his notes app. p.s. reblog = kisses and love p.p.s. hydrate. wear something soft. never settle for a love that doesn’t look at you like Hyunjin looks at sun-warm skin and unscripted laughter p.p.p.s. drop a member + a soft scenario in my inbox and I’ll write it. no shame. no brakes. let’s emotionally disintegrate together 💌

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the dividers

🎧 » Love Again — Baekhyun « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:16 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Bang Chan // 방찬

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re sitting on the studio floor, legs criss-crossed in that hoodie you always steal, eating spicy ramen with your hair a mess, humming quietly to the instrumental he left looping. It’s nothing fancy. No makeup. No posing. Just you, glowing under the dim studio light. You look up and smile—mouth full, eyes bright, like he’s your favourite person in the world.

His heart stutters. His breath catches. And then: stillness.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Oh. Shit. I’m gone. I’m in love. There’s no coming back from this.”

💌 How he acts right after: Absolute silence. Like, full system shutdown. He suddenly “needs to focus” on the track, spins his chair around, fidgets with literally anything. He can't stop glancing at you in the reflection of the monitor, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling like a schoolboy.

You: “What’s wrong?” Chan: “Nothing.” Also Chan: writes 6 love songs in one night and names the folder “idk.”

🫀 How he is in love: Gentle. So, so gentle it aches. He pays attention to every detail—your snack habits, your late-night mood swings, the way your lip curls when you’re overthinking. He worries constantly. Holds you like you're something delicate and divine. He serves you, literally and emotionally.

💝 Love language: – Acts of service → makes you playlists, folds your laundry, rubs your feet at 3am. – Physical touch → forehead kisses, waist holds, late-night cuddle traps. – Reassurance → always reminding you: “I’ve got you. No matter what.”

Lee Know // 리노

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re napping on his couch, curled up in a pile of his cats and blankets. There's drool on your cheek. One slipper’s fallen off. Your hand’s loosely tangled in Soonie’s fur. And for some reason, when he walks in and sees that—that chaotic little mess of softness in his space—his chest tightens. He stands there, completely still. And just breathes. Like if he moves, the realization will hit too hard.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“...Damn it. This is love, isn’t it?”

💌 How he acts right after: Unbothered™. But that’s a lie. He acts the exact same on the outside—dry, sarcastic, lightly roasting you every five minutes. But now, when he calls you annoying, there’s a softness to it. He lets you steal his hoodies without comment. He cuts the crusts off your toast even though he always said that was “a waste.” And when he tucks the blanket tighter around you, he doesn’t say a word. But his hands linger.

🫀 How he is in love: He loves quietly. Intensely. Like it’s sacred. He watches you more than he talks, memorizes your habits like he’s preparing for a test. He won’t say “I love you” often—but the second someone else hurts you, he’s the first to stand up, fists clenched. His loyalty is undeniable.

💝 Love language: – Quality time → he wants you in the room, always. even if you're doing nothing. – Acts of service → small, exacting things. he'll fix your charger, refill your water, remember your favourite side dishes. – Words of affirmation → but only at 3am. in the dark. when you're half asleep and he thinks you won’t remember.

Changbin // 창빈

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re hyping him up after a recording session, arms flailing, voice full of chaotic praise like, “YOU’RE A GENIUS, SEO CHANGBIN. ACTUAL GOD-TIER. GRAMMY WHEN?” He laughs so hard he snorts. Then you toss your phone at him to queue your shared playlist, already scrolling to the song labelled “for binnie only 💘” like it’s just a normal thing to do.

And he just… pauses. Heart pounding. Smile fading into something softer. Because it’s not just a crush anymore. You’ve carved a home in his chest and didn’t even ask for rent.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Holy shit. She sees me. Like, all of me. And still wants to stay?”

💌 How he acts right after: He becomes a walking compliment generator.

You breathe? “You’re so cool.” You trip on air? “Even gravity loves you.” You touch his arm for 0.5 seconds? malfunction noises

He works out harder. Writes more. Smiles more. But also starts sending dramatic voice notes at midnight like,

“Hey um… not to be weird but like… your existence inspires me?? okay bye.” [hangs up instantly]

🫀 How he is in love: Overflowing. He feels big, and he loves bigger. He shows up. Every time. Front row in life for you. Loudest hype man, softest cuddle bear, always checking in even if you don’t ask. His love is protective, silly, and deeply rooted in loyalty—he doesn’t fall often, but when he does? He dives.

💝 Love language: – Words of affirmation → compliments on compliments on compliments. – Physical touch → bear hugs, back hugs, lap cuddles, full weight of his love on your body 24/7. – Gift giving → protein bars, playlists, random trinkets that “reminded me of you, don’t ask why.”

Hyunjin // 현진

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re sitting in the sun, surrounded by your own little chaos—open books, headphones half-falling out, doodles all over the margins, an untouched coffee gone cold beside you. And you’re smiling to yourself. You’re not looking at him. Not even aware he’s watching. And for the first time, he doesn’t reach for his phone to take a photo. He just… stares. Because this moment is his, and his alone.

And he realizes, with a soft kind of devastation,

“I’m already hers.”

🖋️ Inner thought:

“She’s a poem. A prayer. A painting I want to memorize in my sleep.”

💌 How he acts right after: Absolutely spirals. Draws your side profile 12 times and ruins 11 because “they don’t capture it right.” Starts journaling in half-English-half-messy-sketches. Tells Felix about it and then gets mad when Felix smiles knowingly. He gets so quiet around you for a few days—not cold, just reverent. Like he’s scared to touch the moment too hard in case it disappears.

🫀 How he is in love: Soft and dramatic at the same time. He holds your hand like it’s precious, but he also tells the moon about you like you're his eternal muse. Cries at the idea of your future together. Panics if you don’t text back in 20 minutes. Wants to show you the world, but more than that—he wants you to feel safe in his world.

💝 Love language: – Quality time → long walks. gallery dates. sitting in silence and feeling it. – Words of affirmation → whispered. written. cried into your hair at 2AM. – Gift giving → his hoodie. his poetry. flowers that “reminded me of you” and are never store-bought.

Han // 한

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re laughing so hard you almost choke on your boba. You try to tell a story but you’re wheezing between every word, face red, tears in your eyes, and instead of helping—he just starts laughing with you. Like really laughing. Loud. Unfiltered. Giddy. And then your hand brushes his and you don’t move it. Neither does he. He freezes mid-laugh and goes silent. Heart racing. Staring at your hand like it’s a bomb and he forgot the detonation code.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Oh. No. Nope. Not allowed. Too much. Too fast. TOO—oh god I like her.”

💌 How he acts right after: 🧍‍♂️← him trying to walk normally while his brain is buffering Goes from “haha bestie 🤪” to “DO NOT PERCEIVE ME” in 0.3 seconds. Can’t look you in the eye. Drops everything he’s holding for a full week. Randomly sends memes at 2am like “HAHA this reminded me of nothing in particular bye” Starts writing lyrics with your initials in them and then panics and changes them to random letters.

🫀 How he is in love: Unhinged. Loyal. So soft he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Tells you dumb jokes because he wants to be the reason you smile. Acts like he’s chill about everything but will lose sleep over whether you liked the playlist he made you. He’s all heart, no brakes. The type to say “I’m not obsessed or anything” and then write your name 73 times in a private doc called “DO NOT OPEN I’M NORMAL.”

💝 Love language: – Words of affirmation → “you’re amazing” 24/7. calls you pretty when you sneeze. – Physical touch → clings to you like a koala when sleepy. arms around your waist while cooking. forehead touches when he’s overwhelmed. – Gifts → voice memos. notebooks full of scribbles. late-night snacks labelled “eat this or I cry.”

Felix // 필릭스

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re struggling with something—frustrated, eyes glassy, breath shallow. You try to smile through it, but he sees the crack in your voice. And instead of saying anything, you just... reach for him. Wordlessly. Trustingly. Like he’s your calm in the storm. And he holds you. No questions. No “what’s wrong?” And that’s when it clicks. You see him as your safe place. And now? He never wants to be anything else.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“I’d burn the whole world down just to keep her soft.”

💌 How he acts right after: SO SOFT. SO SHY. SO PANICKED. Starts checking in more often—"did you eat?" / "how are you feeling?" / "i saw a cloud and thought of you." Smiles at you like you’re made of glitter and stardust. He hugs longer. Texts sweeter. Starts journaling without realizing it. Cries at random songs because they "sound like you."

🫀 How he is in love: Loyal like a golden retriever. Protective like a knight. Gentle like warm tea in your hands. He wants to give—his time, his hoodie, the last bite, his full attention. He doesn’t love halfway. He pours. Will randomly whisper, “I love you,” mid-snack or during a grocery run. Just because.

💝 Love language: – Physical touch → hand-holding, pinky linking, long cuddles with your head on his chest where he can kiss your hair over and over – Words of affirmation → “you’re doing great,” “you’re beautiful always,” “you make me proud just by being you” – Gift giving → handmade bracelets, playlists with titles like “sunshine for my sunshine,” carefully wrapped little things he “just saw and thought of you”

Seungmin // 승민

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re arguing. Not seriously, just bantering over which ramen flavor is superior. You’re passionate, dramatic, refusing to back down. He rolls his eyes, calls you a menace. But then—

You crinkle your nose at him. That same look you always give him. That smug little grin. And for no reason at all, his brain just short-circuits. Because suddenly, he realizes he never wants to argue with anyone else ever again.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Oh god. She’s my person. She’s IT. That’s… that’s terrifying.”

💌 How he acts right after: Unchanged. Suspiciously unchanged. Keeps up the banter, calls you annoying, pretends like his heart didn’t just fall out of his chest. But he starts doing the quiet things—carrying your water bottle without asking, remembering exactly how you like your eggs, glancing at you when you laugh like it’s the last time he’ll get to hear it.

🫀 How he is in love: He doesn’t say it often—but he shows it in every micro-moment. He teases because he’s comfortable. He remembers everything you say. Stays up just to walk you home. Buys you medicine before you realize you’re sick. He doesn’t ask for much—he just wants to be the reason you feel steady.

💝 Love language: – Acts of service → does everything quietly. recharges your headphones. clears your plate. fixes your tech. – Quality time → invites you to sit with him while he works. listens when you ramble about nothing. – Words of affirmation (low volume) → slips in compliments when you least expect it:

“you’re really smart, you know.” “i like when you talk like that.” “i’m proud of you… just don’t make it weird.”

I.n // 아이엔

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re dragging him through a bookstore, rambling about your favourite genre, talking a mile a minute. He’s not even following half of it—he’s too busy watching the way your eyes light up when you speak, the way your hands move when you’re excited. You stop mid-sentence, look back at him, and go:

“What? You’re staring.”

And he stammers some excuse—but the truth is, he just realized he wants to follow you around like that forever.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Oh. Oh no. I’m in love. I’m so done for. What do I do. WHAT DO I DO—”

💌 How he acts right after: Absolutely panics internally. Externally? Tries to act cool. Cue awkward jokes. Random distance. More awkward jokes. Starts doing little things for you but blaming them on coincidence.

“Oh you forgot your charger? Weird that I brought an extra one for no reason.” “I totally wasn’t waiting here for you to show up. I just… happened to be standing exactly where you are now.”

🫀 How he is in love: He glows. Around you, because of you, for you. Gets bolder in bursts—sends texts like “I missed your voice today.” Wants to impress you but also wants to be vulnerable. He tries so hard not to mess it up. But love softens him, makes him gentle, open, kind in a way that’s deeply intentional. Every time you smile at him, he falls harder.

💝 Love language: – Gift giving → tiny, random trinkets. receipts with hearts. keychains. snacks he saw and thought “this is so her.” – Quality time → slow walks, late calls, staying on FaceTime even if you’re both doing other things. – Physical touch → hesitant at first, then clingy. loves resting his head on your shoulder or getting forehead kisses like he’s your baby bird.

[wileys-russo]

pass outs and paperwork II fresa putellas (oc) x solstråle engen (oc)

the people have spoken - a little fresa x sol fic set in the future after they’ve gotten together written by @girlgenius1111 and i for your enjoyment! pass outs and paperwork II fresa putellas (oc) x solstråle engen (oc)

“and you’re sure i have to do this?” sol sighed heavily, refusing to make a move from the passenger seat as mapi cut the engine off, having parked right outside the clinic. “sí mi sol, unless you would rather go back to the doctor and-” the norwegians seatbelt was undone and she practically flew from the car making mapi chuckle.

“can we get a coffee first? we should get a coffee first.” sol tried to run and was stopped in her tracks by the shorter spaniard in front of her. “no you have to fast you know this nena. i reminded you, ingrid reminded you and i know fresa reminded you. clinic first, coffee later, i will even buy you lunch after.” mapi patted her back, turning her around and lovingly pushing her forward toward the clinic.

“oh wait, my phone! i left my phone in the car mapi i have to go back and get it." sol scoffed again trying to turn back as mapi hummed knowing it was a lie, shaking her head and turning her back around, a slightly harsher shove forward this time.

sol couldn’t even take her time entering as the doors were of course automatic, opening by themselves the moment she was within a foot's distance, mapi’s hands on her shoulders still walking her forward despite their obvious height difference the defender was stronger than she seemed.

“vamos solstråle, that nurse there is cute eh? should we go talk to her?” mapi teased making sol roll her eyes, the norwegian's girlfriend not having noticed them come in yet as she sat typing away at the front desk.

“she’s not technically a registered nurse yet actually she-'' sol started, words dying in her mouth as fresa heard her voice and looked up, smiling in their direction as the older girl's knees buckled making mapi snort with amusement and mutter some sort of teasing remark under her breath.

“bon dia! i will not lie maría, i really did not think you would get her here." fresa grinned as the pair arrived in front of her, only three other people sat in the waiting room. “hey!” sol frowned as her girlfriend sent her a wink, reaching under the desk and grabbing out a clipboard with a new patient's form and a pen.

“fill this in then bring it back over and we’ll head back, don’t lie on it solstråle.” fresa warned, a perfectly manicured finger held up menacingly as her girlfriend's eyes rolled and she grabbed the clipboard, the younger girl blowing her a kiss and turning back to the monitor in front of her.

“dios mio you really see the alexia in her as she gets older don’t you? i thought it was bad when she was a niña but now she is so bossy, just like her hermana!” mapi tutted as the pair sat down in the waiting room, sol starting to fill in the new patient sheet with a hum.

“translate please.” the norwegian gave in with a defeated sigh after struggling through the first two questions, shifting the clipboard onto the defender's knee and handing her the pen.

it shocked her that mapi barely had to check anything with her, near flawlessly filling in all of her health details and only clarifying a few small things here and there when the defender wasn’t sure.

“acabado. now go give it to that cute bossy nurse!” mapi handed her back the clipboard with a smirk anna wink as sol shot her a dirty look. “yeah yeah she’s not a nurse, now hurry up i’m hungry!” mapi mocked, shooing for her to go, pulling out her phone as the girl stood.

“you’re hungry? i’m the one whose fasting! you ate two dinners last night!” the younger girl scoffed as the spaniard just impatiently waved her off toward the front desk.

“gracias amor!” fresa sang out, plucking the paper from the girl's grasp, setting it down in front of her and beginning to quickly type everything into their system to set her up with a clinic profile.

“you look very pretty today.” sol smiled charmingly, resting her chin on her fist as her girlfriend glanced up in amusement with a small smile.

“you look pretty everyday.” “you look prettier.” “you’re the prettiest.” “you look prettier than the prettiest so-”

“excuse me this is a work environment not a bar, be professional putellas no flirting with the patients!” fresa rolled her eyes as one of her coworkers, carmen, joined her, watching with a grin as sol's face flushed bright red in embarrassment and she quickly straightened up from where she’d been leaning against the front desk.

“ignore her cari. she is just joking, jealous and hopelessly lonely.” fresa teased her friend with a sarcastic pout who pulled a face back, the catalan sending her girlfriend a wink as she finished inputting her information into their system.

“vale. ready?” the younger girl pushed back out of her chair, swapping out with her coworker who sent sol a kind smile and took her seat at the monitor, fresa moving out from the front desk. “no.” the norwegian mumbled nervously under her breath, following slowly after her girlfriend as mapi joined them, the trio heading out of reception and toward the collection rooms down the hall.

“go into this one here. solstråle mi amor up on the bench and take your hoodie off por favor, mapi you sit down in that chair, and i will be just a minute." fresa slid open a door on the right and gestured inside. “oh and don’t touch anything maría, i mean it.” the youngest putellas warned seriously, closing the door again and leaving the pair alone.

“see! diablillo. so bossy, just like alexia.” mapi scoffed, though the norwegian kicked her gently as the older girl immediately reached out to grab a 3D model of a heart from the desk in front of her. “well she has a point.” sol chuckled as mapi huffed and crossed her arms, dropping the model back down on the desk. though seeing sol's face pale as she looked around at the posters and shrugged off her hoodie mapi sat up properly knowing she was needed now.

“hey. mi sol you will be fine nena, you are in the best hands possible you know fresa would never hurt you.” mapi promised softly, a hand settling on the younger girl's knee as she sat up on the bench with a shaky nod, chest tightening with anxiety as her left leg bounced lightly up and down.

the norwegian jumped suddenly as the door slid open again and closed with a small bang, her girlfriend returning with an armful of vials and a box of gloves, setting them down and messing about grabbing out a few more items from the drawers beneath.

“did you touch this? i said no touching, tonta! why do you have such big ears if you cannot use them to listen?” the brunette narrowed her eyes, smacking mapi on the shoulder and moving the 3D heart back where it came from as the older girl whined about abusing clients in the workplace making fresa roll her eyes.

“now cariño do you want me to explain exactly what i am doing as i go, or do you want me to go ahead and have the bocaza distract you?” fresa stopped right in front of her girlfriend, hands on her knees and a kind smile on her lips as she jerked her thumb toward the tattooed defender beside her.

mapi scoffing in offence at the nickname she muttered something under her breath, resisting the urge to sweep the youngest putellas’s legs out from beneath her.

“i don’t know.” sol answered quietly, fresa grabbing her hands where they nervously fidgeted in her lap. “okay. well first i am going to get this band and wrap it around your bicep, then i will pump it with air and that will feel strange but it is to cut off the blood flow so it is easier for me to find your vein.'' fresa explained softly, sol nodding in understanding.

“aquí bebé, fiddle with this but try to sit still, then we can get this done faster!” the younger girl messed around with the tie on the woven bracelet on her wrist.

sol knew it held a large amount of meaning to her girlfriend, given to fresa by her sister alba to help with her own nerves when she was much younger, the girls older sister now always replacing it with a new one she’d make when the strings would fray and fade.

managing to untie it fresa wasted no time tugging it off and slipping it onto her girlfriend's wrist, tying it back up with a smile and softly kissing the taller girls palm as mapi fake gagged, a loud smack echoing as again fresa’s hand collided this time with the back of her head.

“bocaza, distract her.” fresa ordered addressing mapi this time with a click of her fingers as she grabbed out the band. “no please? no manners? your hermana raised you better than this.” mapi tutted as fresa rolled her eyes. “stop feeding alexia’s delusions that she’s my mami, she is already too protective.” the girl huffed, grabbing her girlfriends arm and wrapping the band around before starting to pump the air which sure enough felt strange as sol grimaced.

“do you think when ale has kids they will call you tía or hermana?”

“maría, you are supposed to be distracting sol, not annoying me. or one of these needles might slip and fall into your leg, or maybe your forehead. ya sabes i am not trained in botox but…” fresa threatened as her girlfriend cracked a genuine smile and mapi’s jaw fell open in shock.

“if we were not in your place of work, diablillo…” mapi inhaled with a shake of her head, the younger spaniard smirking and sending her girlfriend a wink. “i can take you anyday león. i have before!'' fresa reminded as mapi’s face blushed red at the memory. “you cheated and i was drunk! that does not count.” the defender huffed.

“when barca won the champions league a few years ago we went to a big party afterwards with all the family and friends. mapi had a few too many shots and tried to lift leila onto her shoulders, she fell over and thought i pushed her and then tried to tackle me-” fresa recounted, sols eyes never leaving her face nodding along with the story.

“-but she missed and tackled a pot plant instead. then she tried again but tackled alexia because she could not see straight, and la tonta can show you the photo of the black eye which followed.” fresa finished, grinning at the melodic sound of her girlfriend's laugh. “that is not how it happened putellas!” mapi scoffed incredulously, shaking her head.

“i was minding my own business just trying to celebrate with the team. then i tried to hug your sister, diablillo stuck her leg out and tripped me over out of nowhere, and sent me flying into a table and i smacked my face on the corner." mapi’s hands flew around the room determined to defend her honour.

“not what happened.” fresa whispered to sol as mapi continued to rant and rave behind her. “has mapi told you about the time she and leila looked after me for the weekend when i was little?” fresa spoke up again as the norwegian shook her head.

“she tied us up and tortured us for two days!” mapis hands flung up into the air as sol grinned watching her neck and ears turn red with frustration. “i told you both i was in charge, you did not listen. you should be embarrassed, letting an eleven year old tie you both up.” fresa shook her head as mapi scoffed. “you tricked us! you pretended to be sad you were left behind and said you wanted to-”

“and done!” the norwegians eyes widened in shock at her girlfriend who interrupted. “what? already?” even mapi was stunned into silencing her stories, both girls wide eyed as fresa nodded.

“sí. i told you, i am the best!” fresa shrugged, unwrapping the pressure band and setting it down beside sol on the bench as she grabbed out a marker and started to fill in the labels on the eight vials of blood she’d taken while her girlfriend was distracted.

“you even got a lollipop because you were such a good girl.” fresa smiled smugly, holding out the jar to her girlfriend and relishing in the way the girl's entire face blushed beet red at her words and she hastily grabbed one.

with the norwegian the tall and tattooed individual she was everyone always assumed the dynamic between the pair would sway in her favour, which was occasionally true (when fresa allowed it), though really fresa enjoyed nothing more than watching how easily she could get the seemingly more dominant girl to crumble, knowing in reality most of the time she was anything but.

“wait, are those all from solstråle?” mapi asked wide eyed as fresa's head whipped around to glare at the defender, sol’s own eyes dropping to the vials of blood. “por qué preguntas eso, estúpido idiota!” fresa hissed, mapi’s mouth opening and closing trying to find an answer.

though their pending argument was cut off by a loud thud, sol having passed out and fallen to the floor collapsed in a heap, mapi dropping to her knees right away to lay her down properly as fresa let out a loud groan, burying her face in her hands.

“por el amor de dios! maría do you know how much extra paperwork i have to do now because she passed out? i had a near perfect patient record until this, and i just came off my probationary period!” fresa groaned dragging her hands down her face with a sigh.

“mi sol? sol? nena? solstråle?” mapi repeated, tapping gently at the norwegian’s cheeks with the back of her hand. “fresa make her wake up, i hate when she does this.” the girl demanded with a scowl.

“well whose fault is it that she passed out maría? you just had to point out the blood didn’t you? idiota!” fresa bit back and rolled her eyes at the spaniard’s panic, knowing well enough by now that this was a normal occurrence for her girlfriend any time she saw blood.

“this happens when she pulls on a hangnail too hard and see’s a drop of red, how are you not used to it by now mapi?” “well fresa i do not like my girlfriend’s hermanita looking lifeless on the ground in front of me, would you like to call ingrid and tell her what has happened?”

at those words fresa paled and dropped to her knees, admittedly quite terrified of her girlfriends older sister despite the fact ingrid had never really given her a reason to be, mumbling a quiet “no thank you.”

with a light touch to her cheek and soft encouraging murmur from the younger girl, sol was blinking her eyes open, a glazed over look finding its way onto her face as she recognized her girlfriend hovering above her.

“oh hi fres.” the norwegian mumbled, smile only growing when the girl above her smirked back. “hola dopey, did you have a nice nap?” the spaniard teased with a wink, tracing sols jaw with her thumb.

“sol! ay dios mio nena, you have to stop doing that.” mapi exhaled dramatically, clutching at her chest as if the poor girl had just attempted some life risking feat and not fainted at the sight of her own blood.

“you should not have pointed out the b-l-o-o-d and she would have been fine!” fresa snapped, though her touch remained gentle as she ran her thumb across sol’s cheek and forehead, tracing across the taller girls worry lines which she knew from past experiences helped to ground her again.

“i can spell.” sol interrupted. “i know you just spelled blood, i’m not stupid.” “of course not mi amor, maria is the only stupid one here. do you want another lollipop?”

“yes please!” sol replied excitedly, effectively distracted, though it meant she sat up much too fast. “uh oh.” the girl mumbled, head spinning at the sudden movement.

sol shut her eyes tightly, reaching out to grab on to the nearest stable object; that just happened to be mapi’s arm. with a sigh, the defender lowered the girl back down onto the ground mumbling something inaudible and encouragingly squeezing her shoulder.

though whatever was said seemed to reach fresa’s ears who smacked the footballer on the shoulder with an unimpressed glare before getting back up to her feet to finish labelling the vials, handing mapi the jar of lollipops as sol blinked groggily.

“i will be back. once she is a little more stable can you try to get her back up on that bench? legally i am not allowed to let her leave until her heart rate is normal and i test her blood sugar levels.” fresa sighed, collecting the vials and addressing mapi who nodded.

stepping out fresa made her way out back where only staff were permitted, bagging up the vials and slapping on the sticker of her girlfriends details, carefully placing it into the storage fridge and hurrying through to reception where carmen still sat typing.

“can you print me off an incident report please?” fresa asked quietly. “what? did you try to have sex with your girlfriend in one of the rooms and get caught?” the older girl teased as the younger girls ears burned red in humiliation. “carmen! cállate.” fresa hissed looking around to make sure no one heard as carmen rolled backward to grab the paperwork from the printer.

“relax chica i am only teasing. is everything okay?” the girl asked, much kinder this time handing fresa the stack of papers who nodded. “sí, está bien. solstrale is not good with blood, she took a look at her vials and passed out.” fresa sighed as carmen smiled.

“and you know to-” “monitor her heart rate, check her blood sugars, keep her till i am happy with the results?” fresa recounted in a somewhat questioning tone as carmen nodded happily. “perfecta.” the older girl praised filling fresa with pride as she nodded.

“oye fres? when you are done, take your break. go get some lunch with tu novia!” carmen informed as the spaniard frowned.

“are you sure? you started before me so you take your hour first?” fresa questioned as carmen waved her off. “oh sí, i just have to check with the manager…” she paused looking around for a second until her eyes fell down to her nametag on her scrubs.

“oh look, that is me! and i say it is fine, now go before i change my mind amiga.”

~

“sol will drive you home?” eli questioned as she parked outside the apartment building where her youngest daughters girlfriend lived. “sí mami, and i will be home before ten. gracias!” the girl leaned across the console to kiss her mamis cheek, unbuckling and stretching over to grab her bag from where it sat on the backseat.

“mija do not forget to tell her about family dinner on friday, i will make her favourite!” eli called after her youngest who frowned. “why do you always cook her favourite? you used to like me more than my girlfriend, eli.” the girl scoffed, paling instantly at the hardened look at the use of her mamis first name.

“lo siento mami, i will tell her.” fresa apologised quickly, waving goodbye again before using the key given to her by her sol and letting herself into the building.

stepping out of the elevator fresa barely knocked twice at the front door before it swung open, a squeal leaving the girls mouth as her feet were no longer touching the floor, her girlfriend tossing her over her shoulder.

“solstråle! put me down tonta, ya mismo!” fresa laughed hitting the taller girl on the back who ignored her, kicking the door closed and carrying her further into the apartment making a beeline for her bedroom.

“hi fresa!” ingrid called out with a small smile from the kitchen where she was making dinner, mapi out walking scout to burn off his extra energy since he’d been home alone all day.

“hola ingrid!” was all the girl could get out before sol made it to her room, dropping her girlfriend very ungracefully onto her bed and closing the door. “door open solstråle!” her sister yelled out in warning as sol groaned but opened it just ajar again.

“mi amor no i need a shower por favor i still have my scrubs on and-” but the catalans protests fell on deaf ears, her girlfriend flopping down on top of her without a care. “you can shower later.” the norwegian decided for her, hand patting her cheek lightly as she wriggled around to get comfortable.

“there is blood on them.” but at that she shot bolt upright, rolling off fresa who grinned and pushed herself off the bed. “hey no there isn’t!” sol scowled looking her girlfriend and her seemingly clean scrubs up and down and crossing her arms, fresa only sticking her tongue out and grabbing her bag off the floor, making a beeline for her girlfriends ensuite.

“do you have to do all of that?” the norwegian groaned, dragging herself into the bathroom as fresa made her way through her post shower skincare routine. “you already look pretty all the time babe, even without all this shit on your face.” the girl mumbled, hugging her shorter girlfriend from behind, hunched over and scowling.

“sí amor, quiero.” fresa chuckled, patting sols hands which rested on her stomach as the girl huffed, unwrapping herself and taking a seat on the lid of the toilet. “i am done anyway cariño, your turn!” fresa cheered as sol threw her head back with a loud groan, her girlfriend moving her legs apart so she could stand between them.

“no i don’t wan-” but before she could even finish her sentence sol grimaced and quickly closed her mouth, moisturiser already being smeared across her face as the older girl deflated with defeat, allowing fresa to do as she wanted.

though when finally fresa was done and sol was ready to pull her into bed, ingrid called that dinner was ready and her girlfriend was already up and headed out, the norwegian groaning and begrudgingly following after her to the table.

“no we don’t want to watch a movie, no we don’t want to play a game, no we don’t want to hang out with you both but great dinner so good so delicious one of your best thank you bye!” sol rambled out quickly once they’d all finished their food and fresa had of course insisted she help clean up, grabbing her girlfriends hand and practically hauling her back toward the bedroom, ignoring mapi’s teasing remarks yelled after them.

“finally!” sol exhaled, ever so carefully closing her door with the softest of clicks, waiting a moment and when ingrid didn’t yell for it to open again she let go of the handle.

“wait what? what are you doing?” sol frowned as fresa was knelt down rummaging through her backpack, not making herself comfortable in the middle of the bed like she normally would be, scout already curled up on the end waiting patiently.

“studying amor, i have a unit due at the end of the week!” fresa frowned as she pulled out a textbook, mumbling something to herself in spanish as she hunted for something else and sol groaned loudly, dramatically back flopping onto her bed. “nooo!”

“you should be studying too! your history paper, did you finish it?” the spaniard asked, standing up with an armful of school supplies and staring her girlfriend down who shook her head. “did you start it?” fresa asked, giving the taller girl a hardened look who scoffed. “yes! don’t give me that look putellas.”

“well then don’t lie to me engen. oh did you buy more lego?” fresa realised as she tried to clear some space on her girlfriends desk, noting a few new additions to the norweigans very large and very proud collection as the girl sprung to her feet eager to show them off. “yes! look i got the jaws set, and another succulent and then mapi finally found the add ons for my-” she fell silent seeing the amused smirk on the younger girls face.

“don’t laugh!” sol scowled, crossing her arms and glaring down at the shorter girl who placed her books down on the desk. “i am not laughing mi amor, it is muy adorable how much you love your little legos.” fresa grinned, hugging her and staring up at the stone faced norwegian, stretching up to peck her lips a few times.

“solstråle!” fresa yelped as once again she was picked up off her feet. “i told you to stop manhandling me!” the girl warned, her accent when she spoke english making her girlfriend grin as once more fresa was dropped on the bed, scout jumping off and making himself comfortable in his own bed in the corner.

“no no bebé i told you i need to-” but fresa sighed as her girlfriend again collapsed on top of her causing her to grunt. “you need to cuddle me.” the girl demanded tiredly, fresa wanting to argue but unable to stop the smile curling into her features at the sudden softer shift in sol when she was needy.

“you are such a big baby.” fresa teased, the two of them moving around for a second until both were comfortable, sol grabbing her girlfriends hand and moving it to tangle in her hair, fresa already knowing exactly what she wanted as the taller girl turned on the tv.

“can i pick? you will be asleep in ten minutes.” fresa chuckled knowingly, sol grumbling something in norwegian and refusing to give the remote up making her girlfriend roll her eyes, fingers messing about with her hair.

“another nature documentary?” “they’re interesting!” “sí, for old people.” “fresa!”

“bien. watch your stupid tree show!” fresa gave in with a sigh, admittedly far too comfortable using her girlfriend as a makeshift weighted blanket to be bothered to argue. “well i did go through a horrible experience today, this mean nurse stabbed me and made me pass out!” sol sighed, laughing as her girlfriend scoffed in offence and tried to push her off to no success at all.

“oh lo siento, poor bebé.” fresa pouted sarcastically and rolled her eyes, her feisty attitude part of what had solstråle so attracted to her in the first place. “mmm i think i need spanish kisses to make it better.” the girl grinned wolfishly, tapping her lips as fresa sighed deeply as if it was a chore, sol pinching her softly and shuffling up the bed a little.

“lucky you are cute sometimes engen.” “only sometimes?” “si, you are also very annoying amor.” “so charming putellas.”

“i love you.” sols features softened as she pushed herself up to hover over the younger girl a little whose hands moved from her hair to cup her face, perfectly manicured fingers tracing her jaw. “i love you.”

“i love you more.” “i love you most.” “i love you more than the most.” “i love you-”

“ay dios mio i have had to hear this all day! you two are disgusting give it a rest!”

[residentwordsofaffirmationdealer]

tracking barbara gordon's skillset as oracle:

she provides directory assistance for several international and intergalactic teams of superheroes (the birds of prey, justice league of america, the outsiders, and she has worked with the titans before).

she is the primary hacker and information network source for many of these heroes.

she helps provide mercy ops (disaster relief and humanitarian efforts) globally.

she is able to hack into the white house cameras.

she hacks into the united states air force routinely to use their memory capabilities.

she is seen as a pentagon level threat.

she writes her own code for scanning new satellite images for human habitations and anomalies.

she's accessed air force rockets no one is supposed to know about and overridden them to fire them.

she has a team of drones ready for surveillance.

she's put her own security systems on arkham asylum.

she hacks into information databases from federal complexes and assembles blueprints and guard schedules so she can send her agents to break into them.

she sets a government complex on fire (she says it is a small and contained fire.)

she also sets the clock tower on fire to force batman to not do murder/suicide.

she hacks into cia debriefing transcripts to obtain information.

she controls a large portion of the world's internet and power grids.

she also is the reason why many world leaders are in power.

she has access to the bank accounts of several supervillains, whom she toys with (specifically for blockbuster, she regularly steals millions of dollars from his accounts in a way that he cannot track who is stealing it and where it is going -- she's stolen 3 million, 17 million, 6 million, twenty million and also a hundred million from him).

she can also hack alien drones.

she can control traffic.

she has several booby-traps in the clock tower for potential assaulters. she also a device to monitor movement of people around it, in case batman decides to show up.

cited panels down below!

"she's the four-one-one for the jla, she the database for the g.c. ex-p.d. she runs mercy ops around the world." nightwing (1996) #38

"you have cameras in the white house?" "don't be silly. the white house has cameras in the white house. i've just tapped into them." nightwing (1996) #66

"i mean, someone hacks into our system and routinely uses our [united states air force] memory capabilities!" "i know!" "often." birds of prey #1 (1999)

"i run a database and search engine for a select few free-land crimefighters." birds of prey: manhunt (1996)

"we scan the most recent images for anomalies. things that don't belong." "where'd you get a program for that?" "i wrote my own code for that one." birds of prey (1999) #3

"they've accessed whitehorse, sir." "whitehorse? no one's supposed to know about that!" birds of prey (1999) #9

"and oracle? we're going to need eyes on several places at once." "i think we can manage that." detective comics (1937) #1077

"they've accessed whitehorse. what's the chance of them arming it?" "all clear?" "oh yeah." "fire!" birds of prey (1999) #9

"[arkham's] security is good, but piecemeal. i installed my own system there after the last breakout." infinite crisis special: villains united (2006)

"batgirl -- that incident a couple months back? when those government agents caught your face on tape? i found out where they're keeping it. it's a federal complex in virginia. i've sent you blueprints, guard schedules -- everything you'll need to break in." batgirl (2000) #17

"where did you get that kind of information?" "they traded another prisoner last month. i hacked into his cia debriefing transcript." birds of prey (1999) #9

"kat, do you have any idea... any notion at all, of how much of the planet's entire internet i control? how many power grids? how many world leaders owe me their positions?" birds of prey #1 (1999)

"i transferred all the funds in her cayman islands account to another offshore account. if she doesn't get the paintings to me in the next forty-eight hours, that money's going to my favorite charities." birds of prey: catwoman/oracle (2003)

"where do you get current [satellite] shots of rheelasia?" "that's my secret, you little netnik." birds of prey (1999) #3

"but the asborbascons were created using languages long dead even on my planet. they are uncrackable." "yes. the absorbascons are uncrackable. but the alien drones aren't." convergence: nightwing/oracle (2015)

"do you have that kind of cash?" "no. but i know someone who does." "there's been a... discrepancy, mr. desmond." "in plain english, mr. vogel." "at one point, three million was electronically transferred from your numbered accounts in the caicos to a bank account in hasaragua. from there to karocco, then yemen, then split between banks in senegal and manila. and then... my hardware couldn't keep up." birds of prey (1999) #3

"seventeen million from your account in the caymans. six from santa prisca. twenty from rheelasia. and a hundred million plus from other holdings of yours around the world, mr. desmond. and where it all goes? nobody knows." birds of prey (1999) #18

"they're taking your cash from impregnable accounts and transferring it electronically to their own." "and you can't find the source?" "there's subsequent transfers performed at lightning speed. the money's split up, rerouted in and out of various banks in an eyeblink. even i can't keep up with whoever this is." birds of prey (1999) #18

"let me handle the traffic." birds of prey (1999) #58

"all of you. keep your hands where i can see 'em." "not a problem. malory. ripken. peppermint." nightwing (1996) #39

[manjirei]

𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤-𝐔𝐩! | h. kakashi

pairing: kakashi hatake x fem!reader (doctor!reader) genre: fluff, hurt/comfort, super tension-filled.. wc: ~6.8k setting: pre-war konoha; team 7 are still genins. medical wing. warnings: slight use of medical jargons a/n: sorry, it's pretty long! i figured i'd get lazy to write a part two, three, etc. after some time (especially since this has been rotting in my drafts as part one), so i decided to just write the whole thing in one go. i haven't written in years, so i apologize if some parts are kinda ass huhu

thanks for reading!

୨୧ — 𝐈

The first time you meet Kakashi, he's not exactly conscious.

Bloodied, broken ribs, chakra system’s a mess. He's wheeled into your medical wing after a botched infiltration mission and dropped onto your table like a puzzle with too many missing pieces.

"He's stable now," a senior medic declares, handing off the chart to you. "Keep him monitored. He'll be under for a while. If he wakes up early... sedate him."

You nod professionally, but your fingers twitch slightly as you review the name on the clipboard.

Kakashi Hatake.

As in, the Copy Ninja Kakashi. The man who led Konoha's Anbu Ops at an age where you were still learning how to suture without shaking.

But all you see right now is a man with deep scarring, blood under his nails.

Is this really the reality of shinobi? Even the strongest ends up this rough.

“I’ll take care of him.”

And you do. I mean it is your job.

୨୧

He wakes up on day three.

Groggy. Grumpy. Mask already back on somehow.

His one visible eye blinks slowly, adjusting to the sterile white light of the recovery ward. "You're not the usual nurse," he rasps.

You glance over your chart, your pen pausing mid-note. "I'm not a nurse." you reply calmly. "I'm your attending. The name's Y/N."

He studies you with a single eye, unreadable. "You're young."

You raise a brow, unmoved. "Well, you're nosy."

He hums, almost like a lazy laugh, fluttering his eyes shut again.

"Touché."

Kakashi shifts slightly against his pillow. Winces. His breath catches. "You know, you shouldn't move too much," you say softly. "Your lung's still healing."

"Doesn't feel like it," he mutters, wincing again.

"It wouldn't. You were barely alive when they brought you in." You pause, then meet his gaze evenly.

"But you will be. Don't worry, you're not going anywhere. I don't lose patients."

That stops him—like something in your words hits deeper than you'd meant it to.

He doesn't deflect with a quip. Doesn't reach for one of his usual dry remarks to ease the weight of the moment.

Instead, his eye just stays on you.

You don't know it yet, but that's the moment it starts.

୨୧

Though, you still think Kakashi is the worst patient.

He's quiet, which would be fine, if he weren't also absurdly stubborn. The kind of stubborn that turns silent defiance into an art form.

On day five, you step into his room after rounds and check up on him.

There he is—lying in bed, one arm lazily draped over his chest. Breathing even. Quiet.

You narrow your eyes.

Too quiet.

"This is a shadow clone, isn't it?" you thought to yourself.

You step closer and reach for his wrist. And as expected, your hand goes through it. The illusion flickers like smoke dispersing, and vanishes.

You blink once. Then twice.

Your eyes track the thin IV tubing, dragging across the floor, still attached to the pole—and still attached to him, limping slowly toward the window like escaping a hospital room is a normal post-op activity.

You drop your clipboard with a loud clack, pushing the curtain aside.

"Kakashi."

He pauses, glancing back like a schoolboy caught sneaking chewing gum, except this one has cracked ribs and an oxygen monitor.

"Doc," he greets, voice too casual.

"Are you serious right now? You know you can't fool me with your shadow clone," you say, shooting a glare at him.

"I heal fast," he offers, like that explains anything.

You glance at the IV line still dangling from his arm. "Is that why you're still dragging your IV bag like a sad little suitcase?"

You sigh, stepping closer. "You have a punctured lung, you're not even fit to climb out of that window yet."

"I've had worse," he mumbles.

"You are literally dripping saline and blood thinner while trying to crawl out of a third-floor window," you add.

He looks at the IV pole. "I was hoping it would detach on its own."

You sigh. Hard.

Then you plant yourself between him and the window, arms crossed, voice steel-edged. "If you don't sit back down right now, I'll inject you with enough sedative to knock out a tailed beast."

He blinks. Once. Then again.

And—he smiles.

"Come on." you say, hand gently gripping his arm. "You'll tear your stitches. Again."

He looks down at your hand, then slowly steps back into the room, one foot at a time. Defeated.

"...You're not like the other doctors," he blurts.

"No," you deadpan, grabbing the IV pole and dragging it back toward the bed. "I'm meaner."

He laughs. An actual chuckle—quiet and short, but it slips out before he can stop it.

You freeze for a second.

Huh.

You didn't know he could laugh like that. And definitely didn't expect you to be the reason.

Kakashi notices the way your expression falters for just a split second.

"I meant that as a compliment," he says as you help him sit back on the bed, reattaching the IV and tugging the sheet over his legs.

"I know," you reply. keeping your voice even. "I'm just debating whether or not to sedate you anyway. You're a flight risk."

"I prefer 'high-risk investment'," he quips.

You smirk despite yourself. "Sounds like something an emotionally unavailable man says when he knows he's charming."

He huffs a quiet breath as he settles back into the pillows. "And you sound like someone who's been burned by one."

You pause, lifting a brow. "Occupational hazard. I meet a lot of shinobi."

There's a beat of silence. Then his eyes crinkle again. "Touché."

You check the IV line with practiced ease, masking the strange flutter under your ribs.

You don't know it yet, but this is the first time he starts looking forward to your visits.

And the first time you start wondering if this recovering shinobi is going to be more trouble than your toughest surgeries.

Maybe he isn't the worst patient after all.

୨୧ — 𝐈𝐈

He starts lingering after he's discharged.

First it's, "Just a follow-up."

Then it's, "I've been having some tightness in my shoulder."

Then, more shamelessly, "You're the only one who doesn't poke me around like I'm a science experiment."

You don't call him out. Yet.

But you notice.

You notice how he always shows up around the same time—just before your shift ends. You'll be wrapping up patient logs or locking cabinets when you hear that familiar shuffle of footsteps in the hall, never rushed. Always like he belongs there.

You notice how he brings a book, but never really reads it. Just holds it open, glancing up every few minutes—tracking where you are in the room, who you're talking to, whether or not you've looked over yet.

You notice how he always seems to time his visits perfectly with your exit.

"Kakashi? Why're you here again?" "Ah, well you see, I think I forgot my.. book around here the other day. Heading out?" "Yeah." "Mind if I walk with you? It's getting pretty dark." "...Sure."

The walks are quiet at first. He's not chatty. Just... present. And not in a suffocating way, either. He listens when you ramble. Responds when it matters. Fills the silence without ever making you feel like you have to.

You pretend not to notice the way your heart beats faster when his hand accidentally brushes against your fingers as you walk together.

...

One evening, as the light begins to dip below the trees and the hospital's rooftop turns gold with dusk, Kakashi speaks without turning to you.

“So…” A pause. Then, casually.. too casually,

“Why aren’t you a shinobi?”

The question slides into the quiet like a kunai. No edge. But it lands.

You blink, caught off guard. He’s seated beside you on the ledge, legs stretched out in front of him like this is just another idle visit. He’s staring straight ahead—like he’s asking about the weather.

But you know better.

You swallow and look down at your bag, at the little jar of salve you made from scratch earlier.

"I... wanted to be one," you admit, crushing a leaf between your fingers absentmindedly. "Didn't make the cut. Politics. Bloodline—You know how it goes."

He hums, low in his throat. Something between acknowledgment and understanding.

You think that’s it. Think maybe it’ll drift into silence again.

But then he adds, in that maddeningly offhand tone—

“But you still train.”

You stop, just for a moment. A flicker of surprise catches your breath.

Your head turns. “How did you—?”

He doesn’t even blink.

“Your grip. Your posture.” His eye ticks over to you, lightheartedly. “The way you sidestep interns trying to surprise-hug you.”

The last part makes you scoff, reluctantly amused.

“That obvious, huh?”

He shrugs. “To me.”

You scoff quietly and shake your head, trying to brush it off. But then his voice softens. Low, intimate in a way that feels almost too much under the setting sun.

“And the way you treated my chakra scars,” he adds, “like someone who’s felt it.”

Your breath stutters.

He's not pressing, just... observing. Studying you the same way you study old wounds, figuring out where they started and whether they still hurt.

You glance over again.

He’s just looking. That quiet, unreadable gaze of his focused not on your face, but on something deeper. Like he’s reading old damage. Worn threads, invisible bruises.

You pull your eyes away first. “Old habit,” you murmur, voice thinner than you mean it to be.

He nods once. Nothing more.

No follow-up. No prodding. Just lets the moment hang between you and him.

...

The next day, he shows up again. Like always. But this time, no fake excuses. Just him—leaning against your office doorway, hands in his pockets, posture deceptively casual.

You barely look up, already suspicious. “Let me guess, your back hurts and it may have something to do with your chakra points.”

He says nothing at first.

Then, without a word, he steps in and sets something gently on your desk.

Two skewers of dango. Still warm. Wrapped neatly in wax paper. It's like he made sure they wouldn't get cold on the way over.

You blink, mid-signature. “...What’s this?”

You look up at him.

"For your old habit," he says, not quite meeting your eyes. "Figured you could use the energy."

It’s so… simple. But it lands like something heavier.

You stare at the dango, then back at him. Your throat tightens unexpectedly.

“Thank you,” you say, quieter this time.

Kakashi shrugs like it's nothing. But the tiniest crinkle at the corner of his eye betrays him.

You know it. You feel it.

It’s not just the gesture. It’s the silence around it. The way he’s still standing there, not saying anything, not moving to leave. Like part of him is waiting for something. Or maybe… hoping.

You return to your paperwork, but your hand lingers near the food.

“You really didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he says simply.

And there’s something about the way he says it. Like of course he didn’t have to. That’s not the point.

He pushes off the doorway and turns to go. Almost like he’s trying to leave before you can ask anything else. Before you can look too closely.

But just before he slips out of sight, you catch it—that familiar, steady rhythm of his steps in your hallway.

It’s the sound you’ve started noticing more and more lately.

Even when he’s not there.

Even when you wish he was.

You don’t know it yet, but you’re already the reason his feet take the long way home.

And he doesn’t know it yet, but your heart now leans slightly toward the door—every time it opens.

୨୧

By the nth time he shows up in your office, you finally say it,

"You do realize I have other patients, right?"

Kakashi blinks at you from where he's perched on the exam table—same corner, same lean, same unreadable expression behind the mask.

"I'm aware," he says. "But none of them have chakra scarring this symmetrical."

You lower your clipboard, unimpressed. "You said that two days ago."

"I did," he nods. "Consistency is important in the healing process."

You stare at him.

He stares back.

In defeat, you sigh and gesture for him to take off his shirt.

He does so without hesitation—and you hate how very little hesitation you have about it either. His movements are smooth despite the lingering bruising, and your fingers betray you by brushing just a second too long over the edge of a scar.

"You know," you mutter, checking his pulse, "you don't have to pretend you're here for medical reasons."

A beat.

He arches a brow. "You think I'm pretending?"

You glance up at him. "You showed up yesterday because your ear itched."

"It did itch," he says mildly. "Could've been a very rare parasite that actually messes with my chakra system. Dangerous stuff. I was being proactive.

You roll your eyes, but you're biting your lip to keep from smiling. You hate that it's working. That he's gotten comfortable. That you have.

He's watching you again—and not the casual observation he's always done. This is softer. Curious.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asks, after a pause. His voice is quieter now. Almost hesitant.

You look at him, carefully, heart beating somewhere a little too loud in your chest. The way his hands fidget slightly with the hem of his shirt. The way his eye doesn't meet yours at first.

"...No," you admit. "But I'd mind if you keep pretending you're just here for check-ups."

That gets him.

His eye crinkles a bit. The closest thing to a grin you'll get through that damn mask.

"Alright," he says, voice lower now. "Then let's not pretend."

You gulp.

He leans forward just slightly—not enough to break the boundary, but enough that you feel the heat of him, close and steady and very, very real.

"Y'know," he murmurs, in a slight teasing manner "If I keep showing up, I might end up your most frequent visitor."

"Well congratulations, you already are," you mutter, unamused.

"Ah," he muses, "then I guess I should start bringing snacks. Or flowers. What do people usually bring their favorite doctor?”

You blink.

He says it so casually—but there’s something underneath.. Like he’s waiting to see how far he’s allowed to go.

You try to play it cool, but your ears are warm. “That depends. Are they still pretending they’re here for medical advice?”

His gaze holds yours. No grin. Just something soft. Steady.

"You're not just a doctor," he says, almost like a secret.

You tilt your head. "No?"

"You're something else."

The way he says it, quiet, reverent—it makes your chest clench. Like you've been waiting for someone to say it. To see it.

You don't respond. But you don't move away either.

And that's enough for now.

୨୧ — 𝐈𝐈𝐈

You don't expect to see him on the roof.

It's well past midnight. The hospital is quiet, lights dim. Even the overworked med-nin staff have gone home. You'd stayed behind, again, to clear your head the only way you know how.

Shadowboxing under the moonlight. Sweat on your brow. Wrists wrapped. Your stethoscope long forgotten somewhere inside your locker.

You don't even notice the quiet flicker of chakra until a familiar voice breaks the silence.

"Your stance is a little stiff."

You freeze mid-strike, spinning.

Kakashi is leaning lazily against the rooftop doorframe, arms crossed. Civilian clothes. No mask. Just that sleep-mussed version of him that only seems to appear when the rest of the world is asleep—when it’s just the two of you, suspended in some strange in-between.

You exhale, heart jumping in a way that has nothing to do with cardio.

“How long have you been watching?”

He tilts his head, feigning thought. "Long enough to diagnose a repetitive elbow drop. Possibly chronic."

You squint at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“Technically, I’m being supportive.” He shrugs, wandering closer. “Some people bring protein bars. I bring unsolicited critiques.”

“Some people also knock.”

“I’m more of a ‘mysteriously materialize on rooftops’ kind of guy.”

"Stalker."

He shrugs again as you shoot a glare at him.

He steps into the moonlight—and gods, it should be illegal how good he looks in it. Silver hair tousled, sleeves rolled up, that look in his eye like he's trying not to say something too loud.

"You didn't tell me you were this good," he says, quieter now, watching the way as you reset your stance.

"I'm not," you mutter, adjusting your footwork. "I'm just... persistent."

He makes a quiet sound in his throat, somewhere between approval and amusement.

You throw another combo, more focused now—until a warm hand suddenly catches your wrist mid-strike.

You freeze.

He’s close.

"Loosen your grip," he murmurs, thumb brushing along the inside of your palm. His voice is low, his touch light. "You’re strong. You don’t need to punch like the world’s ending."

You usually say something to bite back, but... you didn't.

You can't.

Because he's looking at you like you're already something precious.

His fingers are still curled lightly over yours. His touch is warm.

You're not sure how long you stand like that—close, breath caught, words balancing between unspoken and the undeniable.

And maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s reckless—but right now, under moonlight and bruised silences, you let yourself wonder,

If he came up here for more than just a critique.

And if you’re the only one who doesn’t want to pretend anymore.

But then—

a while ago…

"Okay but WHY is Kakashi-sensei always at the hospital?" Naruto mutters for the third time this week, slurping his ramen suspiciously.

Sakura looks up from her bowl. "You think he's sick again?"

Sasuke scoffs from across the table. "He's not sick. I passed him yesterday—he was carrying dango. Looked perfectly fine."

Naruto leans forward. "So what, he just likes hospitals now? That's suspicious."

Sakura frowns. "Actually... I overheard some nurses saying he only ever waits for one doctor."

Sasuke raises a brow.

Naruto gasps. "YOU DON'T THINK HE'S—"

"—Don't be ridiculous," Sakura cuts in, but even she sounds unsure.

Still, the next time they see him slipping out of the hospital late at night—hair messy, sleeves rolled, looking far too smug for someone supposedly recovering from shoulder pain. All three of them stare.

Kakashi just lifts a hand lazily. "Evening."

Naruto squints. "You're not even limping anymore!"

Kakashi smiles behind the mask. "I heal fast."

...

"You didn't have to come all the way up here just to watch me," you murmur after a long moment. Your voice is softer now. Raw.

He doesn't look away.

“I didn’t come to critique your footwork either,” he says eventually. “Even if it could use work.”

You scowl. “Charming.”

He lifts a shoulder, eyes half-lidded, lazy—except you know him now. You know when his voice goes softer, when he avoids your eyes, when his hands are in his pockets not out of boredom but restraint.

“I came because I wanted to see you,” he admits, voice low.

Your heart trips over itself.

"...You could've just said that."

His gaze dips to your lips, then back to your eyes. "Would you have believed me?"

You hesitate. "Maybe."

The silence between you hums.

"If you keep looking at me like that," you whisper teasingly, "I might think you're about to kiss me."

He's so close now.

"If I did," he murmurs, "would you stop me?"

You don't answer, taken aback with his reply.

But your fingers curl gently around his.

And your lips part, just slightly.

And the world narrows to the space between you and him.

Just heartbeats away.

୨୧

You feel it before it happens.

Kakashi's hand, still cradling yours, shifts just slightly—fingers ghosting along your wrist, your palm until it feels less like a correcting and more like a touch that's meant to linger.

His breath brushes your cheek. He doesn't move away. And the silence thickens with the weight of something that's been building for a long time.

You look up at him, eyes searching.

"...You're close," you whisper.

His eye curves just faintly. “I tend to wander.”

His voice is low, dry — but something in it falters at the edge, almost self-conscious. Almost shy.

You swallow, pulse humming. “…Do you want to?”

A beat.

“I think the more important question is… do you?”

You don’t answer right away. You’re too busy noticing the little things: the way he’s not blinking. How his thumb grazes your pulse like he doesn’t know he’s doing it. How he’s always careful, but somehow always stays just long enough to make your heart forget how to protect itself.

“…Yes,” you whisper, finally. “Don’t go.”

That’s all it takes.

His forehead tips gently to yours—cautious, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You breathe in. His scent taking over you. Faint smoke, cool earth, something grounding.

"'Kashi," you whisper.

It slips out before you even think about it.

He stiffens just slightly, surprised. Then blinks down at you.

“You’ve never called me that before,” he murmurs. His voice is soft, but it catches. Like it struck something he wasn’t ready for.

You feel your face warm. “Should I not have?”

“…Didn’t say that.” He exhales, almost a laugh—the barest curl at the edge of his mouth. “Just… wasn’t expecting it.”

There’s something vulnerable in the way he says it. Like you’d pulled something loose without meaning to. A thread he was doing a very good job of pretending didn’t exist.

And still—he doesn’t pull away.

But something shifts.

His hand slips from yours, trailing down your arm as if second-guessing the right to hold you.

“I’m not…” He pauses. And there it is again—that small crack in the usual calm. “I’m not really good at this.”

The words are quiet. Measured. Not self-pitying, but honest. And it's the first time you hear it: uncertainty. The guarded edge in his voice.

You look at him closely now—at the way his jaw tenses just slightly, how his gaze drops to somewhere near your shoulder instead of your eyes.

How he’s retreating in inches, like he’s used to being shut out before he can be let in.

"I've lost everyone I've ever cared about," he says, quiet. Measured. "Team, friends, family, people I should've protected. People I never got to say anything to. And every time something good shows up, I wonder how long before I ruin it. Or before it's taken from me."

It hits you—not just the weight of his words, but the quiet ache beneath them. The belief that love is something he wasn't meant to keep. A belief stitched into his ribs like a scar.

"That's what I think when I look at you." he finishes, voice rough.

"'Kashi..." You step forward again, gently taking his hand back.

He doesn't resist. Doesn't speak.

You hold his palm between both of yours, grounding him.

"You haven't ruined anything," you say. "And if you're scared of losing me, that just means there’s something real enough to try for."

He's quiet for a long moment.

And then—

"HEY, KAKASHI-SENSEI!"

You both jolt apart like lightning just struck between you.

Kakashi sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why do they always show up when I'm about to make a breakthrough?"

You peek past his shoulder and groan.

Sakura shoots a glare at Naruto. "Idiot! You were supposed to be quiet."

Naruto. Sakura. And surprisingly Sasuke?

Peeking from behind a low rooftop wall, not even pretending to be subtle.

Kakashi turns to you, expression sheepish. "We should probably relocate."

You bury your face in your hands. "I hate everything."

He laughs—a quiet one that reaches his eyes—and gently guides you behind the rooftop door, hiding you both from the peanut gallery of nosy genin.

As you both lean against the wall, catching your breath, you sneak a glance at him.

"Do you... still want to try?" you ask. "Even with all of that fear?"

You're not even touching anymore, but it still feels like you are.

Kakashi's hand is braced against the wall beside your head, just slightly caging you in. Not on purpose, maybe, but he doesn't move away, either.

"You really didn't move," you whisper, staring at the space between your shoes and his.

He hums, voice low. "You didn't ask me to."

When you dare to look up, the air shifts—slow, quiet, electric.

Your gazes lock.

"I think about it all the time," he murmurs.

You blink. "Think about what?"

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he reaches up—slowly, like he's afraid you'll flinch—and brushes a stray of hair away from your cheek. His fingers linger.

"You. Me. What this could be if I weren't—"

"Weren't what?" you breathe.

His hand drops.

"Haunted," he says simply. "Tired. Not built for this."

Your chest tightens. "You're not broken, 'Kashi."

He exhales shakily. "You say it like it's obvious."

"It is obvious," you say, stepping closer—close enough for your hand to find his again. "To me."

A beat of silence.

He looks at you like you're something rare. He doesn't understand how you exist in the same world he does—soft but fierce, steady but unpredictable, someone who sees him and doesn't flinch.

"I don't want to lose this... to lose you." he says vulnerably, and it slips out like a confession he didn't mean to speak aloud.

You squeeze his hand. "Then don't."

He stares at you, really stares. As if he's memorizing this exact version of you, like what he did the first time you told him that you don't lose patients—his first impression of you. The way your eyes shine when you speak. The way you always smell faintly like herbs and clean linen.

The way you say his name like it means something.

"...Say it again," he murmurs.

You blink. "Say what?"

"My name. Like that."

A soft smile tugs at your lips.

"'Kashi."

And oh—he's undone.

You don't notice you've leaned in until your noses almost touch. Your breath catches. His does, too. His hand comes up to your cheek again, a trembling thumb brushing the edge of your jaw.

You're going to kiss him.

You know you're going to.

It's happening.

It's—

"KAKASHI-SENSEI, YOU DROPPED YOUR HEADBAND!"

I swear to all the gods.

You jolt apart again, absolutely burning with embarrassment as Naruto's voice rings out like a kunai in a dream.

Kakashi groans and drops his forehead to your shoulder.

"Unbelievable," he mumbles.

"I'm going to inject him with a sedative," you mutter.

"Well, he'll have to get in line." Kakashi sternly adds.

"I swear, that Naruto."

Still hiding behind the wall, he glances up at you with a rare softness. Something so fond, it steals you breath even more than the almost kiss did.

"...Rain check?" he asks.

You meet his gaze.

And maybe it's reckless, fast, but you smile and say, "Only if you promise you'll actually cash it in."

He steps back, brushing his fingers over yours one last time straightening his hitai-ate like nothing happened.

"Deal," he says, giving you one last look over his shoulder. "You're worth waiting for."

And just like that, he disappears over the rooftop ledge—mask up, cool façade back in place, but his steps just a little too light for someone who's totally not in love.

You lean back against the wall, breathless, heart sprinting.

You're in trouble.

Big, stupid, wonderful, trouble.

୨୧ — 𝐈𝐕

The next day, you're barely holding it together.

Running late for your rounds, you’re juggling a clipboard, two folders, and a thermos of questionably reheated tea that’s one pothole away from disaster. You round the corner near the nurses’ station, muttering under your breath—

And slam straight into something solid.

Well. Someone solid.

The folders go flying. Your tea wobbles midair, chaos pending—

But nothing hits the ground.

A gloved hand steadies your elbow. Another has already caught the folders. And Kakashi Hatake, full gear and unbothered, blinks down at you like he didn’t just materialize out of nowhere to intercept a minor tragedy.

“...Morning,” he says. “You seem busy.”

You blink. Stare. Blink again. “You—what–”

He glances at the folder in his hand. “Radiology results. Hmm. Interesting reading.”

You snatch the folder back with a noise that’s half-gasp, half-groan. “You were discharged.”

“I was,” he agrees, perfectly calm. “Then I left. And now I’m here again. Life’s full of circles, isn’t it?”

"I'm just here for a check-up," he adds innocently.

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you actually here?”

He shrugs. “Might’ve pulled something.”

You frown. “Doing what?”

“Reading,” he says, with zero irony. “Very taxing. Spine’s not what it used to be. You should consider offering shinobi posture seminars. Or maybe back braces.”

You fold your arms, trying not to grin. "Uh huh."

He takes a small step closer, lowering his voice. "Besides... I thought I owed someone a rain check."

Your brain stutters.

Right. The rooftop.

You glance around quickly, suddenly hyperaware of the hallway—the nurses moving in and out of stations, the open patient room doors, the sound of someone wheeling a supply cart past. And him, still standing entirely too close, like his presence isn't already short-circuiting your entire system.

“You remembered that?” you ask, voice a little hoarse.

His visible eye crinkles just slightly, the barest hint of a smile pulling at the edges of his mask. “Of course.”

Your heart stumbles. You forget to breathe for a second.

He still hasn’t let go of your elbow.

“Right,” you mumble. “That.”

“That,” he repeats softly, gaze steady on yours.

Your heart stumbles again.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been looking at him until someone very pointedly clears their throat from down the corridor.

Twice.

You both flinch.

A nurse is walking past with a tray of bandages and a poorly concealed smirk on her face. She doesn’t even try to pretend she didn’t see anything.

Kakashi exhales, glancing after her. “Should I go before we become the subject of your staff’s next coffee break conversation?”

You lift your tea thermos, which somehow survived the chaos. “I think we already are.”

He makes a noise of faint amusement. “How tragic. I was hoping for at least a three-episode buildup before we got caught.”

You shoot him a look. “You’re not helping.”

He shrugs, clearly unrepentant, and gently passes you back the remaining folder like this has all been very civilized. “You didn’t stab me. That feels encouraging.”

“I could stab you,” you mutter, grabbing the folder.

He falls into step beside you as you turn to walk toward the stairwell.

“Please do,” he says lightly. “It’ll give me an excuse to come back.”

You nearly trip on your own feet.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye.

He’s looking straight ahead, hands in his pockets now, posture just a touch too casual to be natural. His mask hides most of his expression, but there’s a quiet ease in him. Something softer than usual. Lighter.

You swallow. “...You don’t have to force yourself to show up just because you feel like you owe me something.”

Kakashi’s voice is quiet, but sure.

“I’m not here because I owe you. I’m here because I want to be.”

Your grip tightens on the folder.

He doesn’t press nor look at you again. But his presence hums quietly at your side like something steady. Familiar. Something trying.

You keep walking, heart in your throat, brain shorting out.

“...Fine.”

His head turns. You don’t have to look to know he’s smiling behind the mask.

His fingers brush yours—just the barest graze, enough to make your hand twitch in surprise.

He doesn’t hold on.

But he doesn’t pull away either.

And somehow, that says everything.

୨୧

It starts innocently.

At least, that's what you tell yourself.

It’s a few days after the folder-flying hallway incident, and most of the clinic has quieted. Dusk has softened the world into gold and shadow. The lights in the hallway are dimmed to a low hum, casting long silhouettes along the clean floors. Most of the staff have clocked out.

You, however, are still perched at your desk, signing off the last few charts with a half-empty mug of cold tea by your elbow and a stubborn crick in your neck.

And then you feel it.

That familiar presence—unspoken but impossible to miss. A quiet awareness that slides in through the seams of your focus.

You glance up—and there he is.

Kakashi stands leaning casually against your office doorframe, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed in that practiced way only shinobi ever manage.

His hitai-ate is pushed up. His mask is on, of course. And his gaze, when it finds yours, carries that ever-present flicker of amusement and something quieter beneath it—something warm.

“You’re making a habit of this,” you say without missing a beat, quirking a brow at him.

He tilts his head. “Is that a complaint?”

“That depends. Are you here with another fake injury? Or should I start charging you rent?”

He shrugs. “Neither, actually.”

He steps forward. And that’s when you see it—a small, slim box in his hands. Plain packaging. Tied with red twine. Your heart immediately performs a minor somersault.

“I brought you something,” he says simply.

You sit up straighter, wariness mixing with curiosity. “...What is it?”

He holds it out, almost sheepishly. “Open it.”

You undo the twine with careful fingers. The box opens with a faint creak.

Your heart makes a strange little thud.

Reinforced knuckles. Lightweight weave. Tailored exactly to your size. And not just functional—they’re in your favorite color. Muted, but elegant. The kind of gear you’ve wanted but never had the time to get.

You blink, throat suddenly tight. “How did you—?”

“You favor your left hand for close defense,” he says. “But the padding was starting to fray. And last week you rubbed your thumb raw without realizing.”

You stare at the gloves, then back at him. “You noticed all that?”

Kakashi scratches the back of his head, almost like he regrets being caught caring. “You’re my attending. It’s... hard not to notice things.”

Your heart twists. The words are simple. But the way he says them—soft, honest, like it cost him something to admit.

It makes you forget how to breathe.

He shifts on his feet. “I know it’s not much. But you’re always patching people up. I figured someone should return the favor.”

You can’t look away from him.

There’s a silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s full—of gratitude, of something you can’t quite name. He meets your eyes, and the world narrows to the space between you, heavy with the ache of things unsaid.

You step closer.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “No one’s ever... I mean, that was thoughtful.”

He shrugs, but there’s a quiet smile in his eye.

“You’re easy to think about, well at least to me."

That lands harder than you expect.

You feel something shift—like gravity tilting slightly between you.

Your voice is a little too soft when you ask, “Is that why you keep showing up?”

Kakashi doesn’t answer right away. He takes another step closer, closing the space until there’s barely room for air between you.

“Do you remember what you said to me?” he asks, voice low. “First week I was here. Third day in.”

You blink. “…I said a lot of things.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah. But one stuck.”

You search his gaze.

“You told me I wasn’t going anywhere,” he says. “That you don’t lose patients.”

Your breath catches.

“I didn’t believe you,” he adds. “Not then. Not with the track record I had. But you said it like it was a fact. Like even if I gave up, you wouldn’t.”

He looks at you then, really looks. Not like you’re a mystery, but like you’re the answer he didn’t think he was allowed to have.

“You made me want to stay,” he says quietly. “Even after I didn’t need to.”

The silence deepens.

You don’t know what to say. Only that something in your chest is unraveling at the seams.

He lifts a hand. Hesitates. Then gently brushes your knuckles with his fingers—like he’s memorizing the feel of you.

“You made me want things again,” he says.

“Kakashi...” you whisper.

“I don’t know what this is,” he continues, voice rough around the edges. “I don’t know how to do it right. But I know what it feels like when I leave the clinic and I wish I hadn’t. Or when I think about you in the middle of a mission, and it makes everything quieter for a second.”

You stare at him, eyes glassy.

“Being around you doesn’t make me forget,” he says. “But it makes remembering hurt less.”

Then, softly,

“I want this. I want you.”

He never meant to stay this long.

The hospital was supposed to be a pit stop. A consequence of a botched infiltration. Just a bed.

Just another awfully long healing process in a boring hospital, again.

Just another scar.

But then there was you.

Sharp-tongued. Steady-handed. Unafraid. You didn't look at him like a broken thing. You didn't see his mask and flinch. You saw someone worth keeping alive—someone worth caring for.

He remembers one of the first things you've said: "You're not going anywhere. I don't lose patients."

He remembers thinking, Good luck with that.

He hadn't believed you. Not then. Not with the weight he carried. But you stayed, even beyond the hospital. Every day, every sarcastic remark, every heartbeat.

And somewhere in the silence between your scoldings and salves, something changed.

He started making excuses.

A sore shoulder. A "follow-up." A muscle twitch that needed checking. When really, all he wanted was five minutes more with you. Ten, if he was lucky. Long enough to hear your laugh, banters, to see your smile.

Long enough to feel like maybe... he wasn't just another name on a chart to you.

You made him feel like he could be whole.

You made him want more.

And now, just inches from your warmth, he realizes—

You're the first person who didn't give up on him before he even began.

And this... this soft, staggering thing he feels in his chest—it's terrifying.

But it's real.

You met him where he was ruined—and stayed long enough to see him whole.

He doesn't want to leave.

You step in without thinking. Press your palm to his chest—right where his heartbeat drums steady against your hand.

“Take it off,” you say, so quiet it’s barely audible.

He freezes. “...What?”

“The mask,” you murmur. “Let me see you.”

Kakashi stills for a heartbeat. Two.

Then, slowly—very slowly—he raises a hand to his face. The fabric folds down with practiced ease.

And there he is.

His face. His scars. The ghost of old wounds etched along his jaw. He doesn't flinch. Not when you see him.

He's... beautiful.

Quiet vulnerability hangs between you, completely unguarded—all laid bare, just for you.

No facade. No barrier. Just him.

Kakashi.

You lift your hand to his cheek, thumb brushing the edge of a healed wound by his jaw. His eyes flutter shut—just briefly—like the touch startles him in a good way.

And then you lean in.

It's soft. Warm.

It's... real.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss—not with hunger, but with so much longing. Like he didn't think he deserved this, but now that it's happening, he's terrified to lose it.

When you finally part, your foreheads rest together, breaths slow and warm between you. The world feels like it’s holding its breath.

"I think,” you begin, barely above a whisper,

“I’m falling in love with you.”

Kakashi stills.

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.

"...You are?" he asks, voice ragged.

You nod.

"I didn't plan to. But you keep showing up, and suddenly you were just... everywhere."

“Kept telling myself it was just clinic visits,” he murmurs, almost like he’s confessing to a crime. “A few check-ups. A few muscle twinges. Some bruises I let hang around longer than they needed to.”

His thumb rubs over the back of your hand once, slow. “And... okay, a few dango runs. Maybe a few too many excuses to pass by your hallway. Maybe I started faking injuries just a little.”

You bite back a smile, but your chest aches.

He looks away for a second, as if the weight of saying it is harder than he'd like to admit.

“I told myself it was safer this way,” he continues, voice dropping to something more fragile. “To just… orbit. Not land. Not want.”

His jaw works. There’s something old in his eyes. Worn.

“You made it impossible for me. Somewhere between the salves and the stubborn lectures and you yelling at me for almost ripping my stitches—I stopped being scared. I just didn't know how to say it."

His hand finds yours and wraps around it gently, firmly, like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

“I didn’t know how to say any of this,” he admits. “I’ve never been good with... saying things.”

You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

You just look at him—his brow slightly furrowed, like he's bracing for the moment to crack and vanish beneath his feet. Like he’s waiting for you to pull away. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But it doesn’t.

It won’t. You won't.

Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his. You let the silence answer for you—full, grounding, real.

Then, gently—soft as breath—you say,

“I love you, too.”

The way Kakashi stills is so subtle you might miss it. A sharp inhale, a flicker in his eye like something ancient inside him just shifted.

And then he laughs—barely. A sound like wonder, like disbelief cracked in half. It’s not loud. It’s not showy. It’s just... Kakashi. Quiet. Guarded. But a little undone.

His voice comes slow. Measured. Like every word matters.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get to hear that.”

He says it like it costs him something. Like it matters more than he expected.

Your eyes sting.

His hand stays in yours, but his other reaches up and brushes the line of your jaw with the backs of his fingers. He’s still not sure you’re real. As if he’s trying to memorize you before you vanish.

You cup his cheek, and he leans into it like someone who’s forgotten how to ask for comfort but finally found it anyway.

And in that moment, something shifts.

He lets himself believe.

That he might be allowed to have this. That he might actually deserve it. That maybe, for once, he won’t lose the thing he’s grown to need.

His thumb brushes your cheek, slow, tender. Like he’s drawing a promise into your skin.

And when he leans in again—slowly, deliberately—the kiss he gives you is softer than the first. More certain. Less like a moment stolen, and more like one that belongs to you both.

Full of warmth.

Full of something that feels like future.

And this time, he doesn’t run.

You don't know it yet, but this is the moment he lets himself stay... in a love never thought he'd be allowed to feel or have.

One that began not with a plan, but with broken ribs, a wrong turn, and the quiet, stubborn hands of a doctor who didn't believe in losing.

A meeting that should've been nothing,

But somehow, became everything.

likes and reblogs are very much appreciated! thanks for stopping by ~ ^3^ <3

(p.s. i hope you guys saw the mirroring of events!! (kakashi to 'kashi), “to me”, and also the use of "you don't know it yet, but..")

requests are open! 🌸

[nasa]

Sharpening Our View of Climate Change with the Plankton, Aerosol, Cloud, ocean Ecosystem Satellite

As our planet warms, Earth’s ocean and atmosphere are changing.

Climate change has a lot of impact on the ocean, from sea level rise to marine heat waves to a loss of biodiversity. Meanwhile, greenhouse gases like carbon dioxide continue to warm our atmosphere.

NASA’s upcoming satellite, PACE, is soon to be on the case!

Set to launch on Feb. 6, 2024, the Plankton, Aerosol, Cloud, ocean Ecosystem (PACE) mission will help us better understand the complex systems driving the global changes that come with a warming climate.

Earth’s ocean is becoming greener due to climate change. PACE will see the ocean in more hues than ever before.

While a single phytoplankton typically can’t be seen with the naked eye, communities of trillions of phytoplankton, called blooms, can be seen from space. Blooms often take on a greenish tinge due to the pigments that phytoplankton (similar to plants on land) use to make energy through photosynthesis.

In a 2023 study, scientists found that portions of the ocean had turned greener because there were more chlorophyll-carrying phytoplankton. PACE has a hyperspectral sensor, the Ocean Color Instrument (OCI), that will be able to discern subtle shifts in hue. This will allow scientists to monitor changes in phytoplankton communities and ocean health overall due to climate change.

Phytoplankton play a key role in helping the ocean absorb carbon from the atmosphere. PACE will identify different phytoplankton species from space.

With PACE, scientists will be able to tell what phytoplankton communities are present – from space! Before, this could only be done by analyzing a sample of seawater.

Telling “who’s who” in a phytoplankton bloom is key because different phytoplankton play vastly different roles in aquatic ecosystems. They can fuel the food chain and draw down carbon dioxide from the atmosphere to photosynthesize. Some phytoplankton populations capture carbon as they die and sink to the deep ocean; others release the gas back into the atmosphere as they decay near the surface.

Studying these teeny tiny critters from space will help scientists learn how and where phytoplankton are affected by climate change, and how changes in these communities may affect other creatures and ocean ecosystems.

Climate models are one of our most powerful tools to understand how Earth is changing. PACE data will improve the data these models rely on.

The PACE mission will offer important insights on airborne particles of sea salt, smoke, human-made pollutants, and dust – collectively called aerosols – by observing how they interact with light.

With two instruments called polarimeters, SPEXone and HARP2, PACE will allow scientists to measure the size, composition, and abundance of these microscopic particles in our atmosphere. This information is crucial to figuring out how climate and air quality are changing.

PACE data will help scientists answer key climate questions, like how aerosols affect cloud formation or how ice clouds and liquid clouds differ.

It will also enable scientists to examine one of the trickiest components of climate change to model: how clouds and aerosols interact. Once PACE is operational, scientists can replace the estimates currently used to fill data gaps in climate models with measurements from the new satellite.

With a view of the whole planet every two days, PACE will track both microscopic organisms in the ocean and microscopic particles in the atmosphere. PACE’s unique view will help us learn more about the ways climate change is impacting our planet’s ocean and atmosphere.

Stay up to date on the NASA PACE blog, and make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of sPACE!

[divinit3a]

thing au drabble for @magspieart :o)

word count: 1513 jack-of-all trades YN, corrupted research drone Sun cw: fear, "living" circuitry/wires

PS- check out their lovely artwork&ideas >:D

The nights here are pitch black. 

Like dwelling beneath the surface of the Earth’s crust, hidden away in cave systems. The notion sounds comforting at this point. To be isolated far from mankind without a care in the world.

You blink through fatigue and sleep deprivation. Muscles strung like a bowstring, taut with stress and ready to snap apart. 

Yawning as you mix together an elixir of instant coffee and boiled water into a blackened sludge. The sludge swirls around in your thermos. You stare into it, as if a magical answer would appear from the ether within and answer your countless questions. 

The meager light of your head lamp, fastened to your snowcap, barely ignites parts of the impromptu research station. You don’t bother wasting the power reserves on your late night excursions anymore. 

You find it hard to sleep. Difficult to dispel the images from your mind. Of the injuries you saw on others. Unnatural. Unholy. 

The rest of your crew chalked it up to an unlucky streak. It was best to not let paranoia fester in close quarters like this. With a storm raging overhead, the helicopter couldn’t be called until it subsides. And after the first of your crew was picked off… well, there is only so much stress a human mind can take before–

You startle when you turn the corner.

A towering figure stands there. Your eyes travel up, and up. Blinking rapidly to accommodate the jarring dilation of your pupils, as the overhead lights burn an afterimage into your retinas.

It’s Sun. 

You relax your shoulders. It’s odd to see the research drone out this late. The night time patrols are handled by its security counterpart, Moon.

But it has been more active lately, perhaps on high alert from the emergency status of your team. The blinking of a radio in the helm that is constantly relaying out an “SOS” into an uncaring, unlistening void.

The fate of your injured coworker is still uncertain. They are resting in the infirmary. They said they were attacked by some sort of wild animal; but you cant imagine what sort of fauna around here could do such damage, yet leave them alive...

The drone stares at you for a while. Most of your crew find it unnerving. A corporate, friendly design. A model that was once considered cutting-edge and sleek is now more of a hindrance and a pack mule for the company. Almost lost to time and disrepair, until you started taking them on as a personal project to rejuvenate and remove from the chopping block of becoming obsolete.

The upgrades have landed the model a ‘new’ job: act as a wall of metal set about to do menial tasks. To monitor the station and keep the research on track. Yet you've always been endeared toward its rigid personality.

"Hi Sun," you greet it with a dip to your head.

Expecting that to be the end of the brief encounter, you try to walk past it, but the mechanical creature stands stagnant in your path. Unmoving. The hollowed-out grin seems to stretch wider in your presence. You blink, imagining two pinholes, two dots of light in its mouth, but that would be— "E-evening, researcher," the robotic hum of an automated response churns through its circuitry. You find your concern taking a backseat, enjoying its simple yet effective pleasantry procedures.

“Evening,” you return the greeting. Sun’s posture never relaxes, mechanisms stiff with weathering. Yet its face plate swivels on its neck hinge, keeping a monitor on your every movement to shuffle past the robot.

Before turning the bend of the hallway, you pause.

There's a nagging thought inside your head that just won't leave. Maybe it's the paranoia bred from lack of sleep – of feeling like someone in this station could be a murderer. A screw loose that shatters the whole facade of being somewhere safe, surrounded by well-equipped professionals. 

No, that would mean admitting that even now, your life is in danger. Leaning in to the certainty of a predictable machine, where your faith in mankind has been tested.

All that fear winds up tight until it becomes an uncomfortable knot in your chest. So, you seek to take on a task that is familiar. Reassuring. 

It will keep your mind from wandering – worse yet, spiraling, at least for the rest of the night.

"Actually, Sun—care for an early maintenance check up?" You call out to the drone.

Its face jolts on a rotation to mime a head tilt. The cracking sound it makes reminds you of a neck snapping. "Soundsounds just peachy, friend! Lead the way!" The jovial voicebank continues, a sway to its arms that is cartoonishly friendly. You admire the gusto while the world is otherwise so bleak. 

Sun marches after you. A slight drag to its left leg. The metal is torn into, panels hanging off the hinges. 

You take note of the detail for later. 

The two of you walk to a smaller offset of the lab: the mechanic’s room. You are a jack-of-all-trades, a hire put on to keep an eye on company tech. Such as the assistant drone across from you.

Sun sits down on your work bench. The mechanical being leans forward, the expanse of its back on view. You feel around the planes of curved metal, fingertips knowing where the latch is that opens up the entire panel. 

The panels open with a groan. With strong resistance. A snapping noise like vines torn apart. Far beyond what you’d mark down as a need to have hinges oiled, almost as if an opposing force was trying to hold it together. To keep them whole.

"I'm going to power you down now," You instruct. Sun's eyes flash a burning white glow. Then in a flicker, dim to their regular intensity. "Y-you got it, researcher!" The lines exalt from their circuitry. Complacent. Yet something curls into its wires, a frantic and fleeting moment of panic that suddenly expires in a supernova the moment you are reaching in and turning off their systems.

The switch is easy to access. Though it parts with difficulty.

The sounds of their internal workings still. The fans stop. The coolant ceases pumping. Electricity stuck without an outlet. Frozen.

You fall into the lull of the routine maintenance check. Dutifully testing wires, cleaning out stubborn gunk that clogs up their delicate machinery. You frown at a particularly stubborn batch of gristle. You lean closer to allow your headlamp to illuminate the situation, but find that–

"Ow," you utter. The small shock to your finger feels insignificant. A faulty wire. You hadn’t been able to check over their systems as frequently, not on this research mission. Perhaps it had put a strain on their foundation, caused a few glitches and bugs that you’d normally catch well in advance.

You move to retreat. But you freeze up. Eyes widening at the sight before you.

The wire matrix pulses. A hypnotic array of neurons sparking and activating. An expanse of circuitry interconnecting and linking. The lights flash once, twice. 

Rippling throughout the dense machinery like a wall of flesh—sentient, breathing, cascading. 

You panic. Rush to turn the assistant's system back on. To stop this horrid hallucination and ground yourself back into reality, because this can’t be real–

You find that you don't need to flip the switch.

Sun powers back on without prompting. The twisting innards interlock with the lines of electricity, completing the system. Routing electricity through like a nervous system. 

You jump back as his hull shuts close in a rapid motion.

Fast, like it had tried to snap down swift enough to decapitate you.

Sun rises to stand before you.

Moving so swift, with such fluidity, that the drone is hardly recognizable from the clunky machinery you’ve grown accustom to. 

Like it is alive, breathing, and not–

"D-don't dont do that again," ‘friend.’ Your breath catches in your throat. Its grip on your wrist is so tight that your muscles spasm and you drop the screwdriver held tight in your fists with a clatter.

“I d-don’t like being shut,” ‘off,’  Sun says. The faceplate swivels and dangles on its flimsy hinge. Within its mouth, shadows ripple and seep out. Reaching toward you. Wisps of claws and unearthly matter that caresses across your face. Cold, bitterly cold. 

Your mind stops working. 

‘so dark.’ The shadows murmur, like a chime lost on the breeze. The temperature of the room keeps plummeting until your breath is crystalizing in the air. Every panicked, hushed wheeze. As your lungs shudder, your body pumps out adrenaline, yet you are stuck in place.

"Good," 'good,' it utters. Synthetic voice blending with a whispering shush. Almost natural like breathing, an exhale that speaks alongside its record-like voice.

Alarm flashes through you. 

You need to tell the others. 

You need to check in on your coworker in the infirmary—you need to, to—

pass out — expecting a thud of your head hitting concrete, only to be caught. Enveloped in arms made of metal and unreal, wispy sinew alike.

[forestshadow-wolf]

Don't be brash. Don't be flashy. And don't show off.

That's what Price explicitly told soap before he went in. It was a crude operation. An illegal cage fight organization that was a front for making off the books deals. They had been monitoring an HVT for months, he comes around for one night every couple weeks. Intel says he's supposed to be here tonight.

And now soap's here. And it's been a long night. With more still ahead of him.

In the not so hindsight it wasn't so weird to send him in. He used to get into only too many fights before Ghost held his collar, and even more so before Price leashed him. He could spar Ghost on the mats for hours on end. So it was quite befitting to have him locked in a fight cage circling with beasts bigger than Ghost, and crowds louder than a circus.

As he circled a monster of a man broader than him, taller than him, meaner looking than him, he felt it almost reminiscent of the first time he met price. His hair too, longer than it should have been. Overconfident but with fire to spare. Only last time ended with a dislocated knee and fractured patella, and Price was telling him he'd take care of him if he could only pull his head out of his ass. And this time Price had let him off his leash as he sidestepped the blow that would have put him on the ground, and was swinging bloody fists into flesh. The bell dinged as his opponent fell.

His fists were bloody, his face was bleeding, his ribs were bruised, and sweat had his hair flopping on his forehead, but the crowd cheered louder as he leaned against the chains caging him in. And Ghost came up beside him as they cleaned his dome and went in search of another contestant.

"Price and Gaz have eyes on the HVT. How much you got left in you?" He didn't flinch when Ghost came up from his blindspot.

"How long do you need?" He muttered, not looking at the man.

"Make it an hour and I give you a reward. Hour and a half and I'll make it better."

Oh?

How soap did love a good treat.

"Break a glass when you want me to throw." It would pain him deep in his soul to throw the match, but probably not as much as the blow to take him out.

---

He had no idea how long I'd been, he'd stopped keeping track a long time ago. Stopped noticing faces. But he must've pummled half a dozen men, at some point between talking to Ghost and they following fight, he'd accrued a group of challengers.

He was facing a big bloke, but hardly the biggest. Long since had the burn set into his muscles, but adrenaline dulled his aches to the buzz of excitement.

A crash and a commotion outside the cage.

That's his cue. He threw a right hook, too it clow in the redraw. It was good contact, but hardly the best. His opponent feigned an obvious left and he compensated, but only just too slow. It rattled his brain, and disorientation made him too slow to block the blows to his ribs. He let himself go down after that.

The bell dinged, and he made no attempt to push the assists off him as they dragged him out of the cage.

Ghost took him under the shoulder, and helped him through the pulsing, dizzying crowd. People were touching him, screaming, slapping him on the back. He collected his spoils, but they needed to get out. They had the package, and he was going to crash soon.

His eye was starting to swell shut, blood smeared his face, his knuckles were split and ugly, his ribs, arms, legs were all turning with bruises. The adrenaline trickled from his system and the colors and sprains and breaks began to throb and ache. He let Ghost take more of his weight the further they got.

[drabblesandimagines]

Too Many Beds

Leon Kennedy x reader, fluffy nonsense

Leon drums his fingers on the wooden counter of the rustic inn as the old man types –taps one painstaking finger at a time – into the clunky desktop PC, pausing every so often to peer down his spectacles and mutter under his breath about new-fangled technology.

It’s been a hell of a day, too many close calls for his liking – the amount of times it felt like his heart stopped beating when you took a hit or had disappeared from his eyeline - and it felt like a miracle that you’d even came across this place off the beaten track. You were near enough dead on your feet and he wasn’t far behind, so he’s thankful that it looks like a decent amount of sleep in a proper bed is on the cards… if the man ever worked out the computer system. He’s glad he pulled rank and ordered you to sit on the battered old couch just behind with the amount of time it's taking.

The man bangs the side of the monitor before giving a nod. “Sorry, grandson set us up with this thing for that “world wide web” and I promised my Martha I’d use it. Looks like we have the one room left, son, only a double, but-”

Leon doesn’t hear the rest – a mixture of exhaustion and his mind starting to spiral with the possible implications of sharing a bed.

There’d been so many moments this mission where he’d been a millisecond away from wrapping you up in his arms and kissing you. There’d always been a connection between the two of you – a fluttering feeling in his gut that he hadn’t felt since Ada, even better that you were on the same side – but it had never felt the right time to act upon it, not when you were fighting for your lives.

But sharing a bed… Well, couldn’t get a more intimate setting than that, right?

He hands over his credit card – under an alias – and smiles. “We’ll take it.”

Setting up the billing takes just as long as finding the room in the first place, but at last Leon is rewarded with an antique-looking brass key, a keyring displaying 4 attached to it.

“Room 4, son. Just up the stairs and to your left. Have a good night.”

“Thank you, sir.” Leon nods in gratitude before he turns to find you nodding off on the sofa, head propped up by an arm that’s slowly slipping off the armrest.

“Come on, sleeping beauty,” he crouches down and offers you a hand.

You accept it with a loud yawn, allowing Leon to pull you up to your feet. Weary legs cause you to stumble into him with a mumbled apology, bracing yourself with a hand on his chest. He wonders if you can feel how hard his heart is pounding at your touch through both the layers of his shirt and bullet-proof vest, having swapped round the order before the two of you had entered the establishment to avoid any questions.

“Let’s get you to bed, hm?”

“Please.”

He places a hand on the small of your back and guides you up the stairs and to the left, towards the room in question. He keeps his hand there even as he slides the key into the lock and opens the door, preparing to explain the sleeping situation - he’d take the floor and you’d protest, claiming his back has been through enough trauma today and he should just cuddle up with you in the bed and-

His eyes widen as he sees the double bed of his dreams…

..alongside two single beds and a crib.

“Wow, that’s…” His hand drops from your back in defeat. “That’s a lot of beds.”

“Mm. He said it was the family room, remember?” You yawn again, taking a few heavy steps over to the first bed – the double - and collapse down into it, not even bothering to remove your boots, jacket or gun.

Leon closes the door behind him with a muted sigh before engaging the lock, and trudges over to one of the single beds, the mattress creaking under his weight as he sits.

“Leon.”

“Mm?”

“What do you think you're doing?”

He looks over to you, your face smushed against the pillow, one eye open, brows furrowed in a confusion that mirrors his own.

He shrugs off his jacket as he replies. “Going to bed?”

“Yeah,” you scoff. “The wrong bed.”

“Huh?”

“Get over here, idiot.”

If he wasn’t so tired, he’ll argue the next morning, he would’ve put up a performance of protest, maybe thrown in a witty remark, but his legs move on their own and he finds himself laying down beside you before he can truly comprehend his actions.

You roll over to face him and before he can blink, you capture his lips in a chaste kiss, allowing him to deepen it when he regains his senses, before pulling away with a content sigh and turn back over.

He wraps his arm around your waist, legs becoming entangled as he pulls you into his chest, pressing a kiss to your crown.

“This better, sweetheart?”

“Much.”

Best night of sleep he’s had in years.

--- Inspired by this post. Comments, likes and reblogs make my whole day x

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

[fancyfeathers]

Requested in messages by @elvabeth

A scenario that lets say all the darlings were in the JL watchtower by themselves cause of some world ending event. The tower is on lockdown (courtesy of batman) to prevent them from escaping. Unfortunately, while the JL are at the other side of the planet or something, the watchtower ends up being attacked by aliens, robots, armed goons or all of them and the darlings can't escape. Doors to the outside are locked. The windows are barred or stuff Ps luthor is responsible Or some sort of high end terrorist group That wants to bring down the Justice League The worst part is that even when the darlings made to the backdoor or secret door whatnot, they can't leave cause of their shock bracelets. Plus the communication system in the tower have been hacked so they can't call for help. Worst part, the Justice league aren't aware of this until after they're done with their mission when Barry can't reach his darling's phone. But when they get there, The watchtower is in shambles and they meet this kind of scene

Minus the dead people The shock bracelets are on the floor soaked in blood but their darlings are no where to be found How will they take this and what's the aftermath Sorry it's so long Ps Hal's darling is paralyzed here

Yandere!Justice League AU Masterlist

Not including Diana’s and Arthur’s darling because I covered why they would not be in the Watchtower or the Hall of Justice here

TW// Very Slight Ableism, Miscarriage, Traumatic Injuries, Loss of Body Parts

It would have been an extremely dangerous incident, the level of Doomsday, in order for everyone to leave. Hell, normally Bruce leaves his darling back at the manor but he has no idea of when he would be returning.

Their one mistake was choosing to leave their darlings in the Hall of Justice instead of the Watchtower, it would be easier to get them all out on the ground if something went wrong.

The Hall of Justice was locked up so tight so that even a drop of sunlight would not even get in, or even oxygen from the outside, but the hall is big enough that they do not even have to worry suffocating.

At first the quiet and person space is nice for a change, especially for Hal’s darling since when he is there he practically never lets her move about on her own, she honestly misses those days as a detective more than anything, but then… she had her accident not too long ago.

Clark’s darling is really just happy to be around other people, it somewhat helps break the perfect family delusion he has made, a darling who is pregnant with his child. It reminds her of who she used to be before all of this occurred.

Barry’s darling is in the same boat as Clark, albeit a tad less delusional, at least lucid enough to know his darling does not want any children… yet, at least. Barry being Barry, I don’t think he can go complete no contact with his darling, so he lets her have phone which has one of those network monitors, so practically all she can do is text and call Barry and whoever else he lets her have contact with. So every few hours he calls up his darling to check up on her, and she does not even have the choice to hang up or ignore it because he has a setting to answer on her behalf, benign all happy and cheerful on the phone, asking how she’s been and having Batman yelling at him to put the damn phone down.

Both Oliver Queen’s and Bruce Wayne’s darlings is just kind of indifferent to it all, it does change any of their circumstances in the long run. Then thanks to Bruce none of them will even have the chance to get out of there, you know those ankle bracelets that people wear on house arrest? Ya turn that up to eleven, pulse, mics, precision point accurate tracking, and a small shock to keep them in line and out of forbidden areas. Though a few won’t let their darlings have this on, because what if something goes wrong or what if it malfunctions and it hurts them? This is namely Clark (because he can always have eyes, or ears rather, on his darling at all times), Hal (his darling was stabbed in the back, literally, when she was a detective and is paralyzed from the waist down, like hell he is going to let something go wrong and fuck her up and hurt her even more), and then Kyle just doesn’t like the vibe of it all.

Kyle Rayner’s and John Stewart’s darlings are just kinda all used to it at this point, with the things they have heard about from the Green Lanterns it’s normally just a question if they should be not worried, slightly worried, or very worried and normally this means how much they need to bunker down. When Hal’s darling comes along they just kinda form a group with how much they get tossed around from place to place for their own protection while they are away.

Then there is just J’onn J’onnes’ darling, who I see being in more of an aroace relationship with him, she is just over everything, literally nothing bothers her because well she does not have no more privacy of her own mind. Like while everyone else is slightly scared or when members of the League are leaving their darlings there, she is just sitting in an armchair, reading her book, completely unbothered by what is happening even when she gets one of Bruce’s cuffs on her ankle.

Now onto the interesting bit of things, it’s one of the nights when they are all alone, they had just finished cleaning up from dinner and everyone is settling down for the night, all of them going off and doing their own things.

And things certainly go wrong in the night.

…

When the Justice League returns they certainly do not expect what they see…

Everything is in ruins…

Blood lining the walls…

The cuffs on the ground and-

Oh god that is an arm.

The footage was bugged so they cannot even look back to see what happened, the power was cut which made everything a complete blackout.

Bruce would barely be able to track anything if it was not for the last security measure he put in place, a chip in his darling’s neck so he could track her if anything went wrong.

While everyone else is arguing about what to do, Bruce and Clark have already figured out their location, though Bruce is much more put together than Clark is.

The Superman looks mortified, just standing there in shock and staring down at the ground.

“There is only one heartbeat…”

Their unborn child never got to see life because of what happened.

It was some mass terrorist organization who the Justice League had bumped heads with before. They saw an opportunity and took it, god knows how they got the information but if they were able to hack the system of the Hall of Justice then they really should not be surprised.

They can’t kill…

But they have to rescue them first…

And then shut down what’s going on.

The Green Lanterns will get to the darlings first, use their constructs to stabilize whatever happened to them, Clark’s darling is a priority since a miscarriage can be deadly, so is Hal’s darling due to her condition, along then with whoever lost the arm. The others will clear the way and-

When they find them all they are a complete mess…

Serious lacerations on every single one of them.

Hal’s darling was clearly thrown against the wall when they arrived and she clearly had head damage and was laying in her own blood that she could not even push herself out of due to the injured state of her arms and the uselessness of her legs.

Serious damage to the left eye of Barry’s darling, cut by some sort of rusted weapon.

Kyle’s darling had broken her right ankle and left leg, along with a huge gash on her upper back. John’s darling was looking after her as the best she can with a broken foot.

Oliver’s darling is the one with the missing arm, clean sliced off along with a punctured lung and in a state of unconsciousness while Bruce’s darling looks after her since she was lucky to get off with only a sprained ankle.

Then there was Clark’s darling, a complete mess, head trauma, broken ribs, and a miscarriage causing her to bleed out. Similar to the previous, J’onn J’onnes’ darling was in well enough condition to take care of her, just enough to stabilize her.

When everything is said and done and they are safe again, there is a heavy bitterness in the air.

The kidnapped them saying that they were keeping them safe…

Hal’s darling entered a coma from her head injuries after being rescued and has not woken up yet after her surgeries.

Barry’s darling had to get her eye removed in order to prevent infection, and then minor damage to the other eye.

Kyle’s darling can’t move out of the awkward position the doctors put her in on her side, so she doesn’t put pressure on the gash on her back or the shattered leg with a metal pole in her leg because of it.

John’s darling is one of the lucky few with only a boot and crutches for a few weeks.

Oliver’s darling had gone into surgery after surgery for her injuries, her arm and lung getting her placed in severe intensive care for at least a few months.

Clark’s darling is in a state of pure emotional distress along with her injuries, her head having been braced and stitched up after a surgeries to take care of her head damage and her… her miscarriage.

Clark is just as much in a state of distress as his darling over her injuries and the fact that he was supposed to protect her and their child and now one of them is dead and the other has injuries she will never fully recover from.

J’onn’s darling and Bruce’s darling are far more focused in looking after the others since they are far more healthy than the others. They visit them all in the medical wing, Bruce’s darling leaving flowers at their bedside, J’onn’s darling reading to them (I think she would be a librarian before all of this), and either of them sitting with Hal’s darling while she is in her current state along with Oliver’s darling who is in recovery.

All of them are in extremely pain emotionally and physically, they were kidnapped, told it was to keep them safe and for their own good, and now one of them is in a coma after she was paralyzed a number of months prior, another is missing an arm along with extremely brain trauma, one of them is missing an eye along with being now legally blind in the other, and one of them is now dealing with the loss of a child.

God when Hal’s darling wakes up she will be having a field day when she was right all along.

[lanaroff]

House of Broken Hearts- Chapter 15

Paring: Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Warnings: ANGST, Blood, Knives.

They had found him. The place was cold and bare, buried beneath layers of concrete and dirt, with dust coating long-abandoned consoles and rust biting at old tech. It’s not exactly the kind of place you’d expect to find the most elusive man in intelligence. But when the biometric door unlocks with a hiss and opens to reveal Nick Fury standing in front of an array of monitors—arms crossed, jaw tight—Steve knows they’ve finally reached the end of a very long trail.

Tony steps in first. “You son of a bitch.”

Fury doesn’t flinch. “Took you long enough.”

“You disappeared,” Steve says, voice calm but sharp. “You left us blind when everything started falling apart.”

“Not everything,” Fury mutters, not facing them yet. “You still had each other.”

Tony doesn’t wait. He walks straight up to Fury, slamming the thick folder Sharon had given you—the same one they showed Ross—onto the metal desk in front of him.

“Did you even read this?” he spits. “Do you know what you let them do to her?”

Fury’s eye lingers on the file. It’s already opened—he’s seen it. And he says nothing. That silence only sets Tony off more.

“She was tortured. Experimented on. Treated like an animal. And while she was out there breaking herself apart for this damn country, you were sitting here in a hole pretending to be dead again. Tell me, Fury—was it all part of your brilliant long game? Let your agent rot while you play spy games in the dark?”

Fury looks up slowly, and there’s something different in his face. Older. Worn.

“I didn’t know they’d get to her,” he finally says.

“That’s your excuse?” Sam says now, stepping forward. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“I knew something was wrong when S.H.I.E.L.D. files on her suddenly vanished,” Fury continues, ignoring the venom in Tony’s voice. “The intel she gathered—everything we had to protect her with—was gone. And when I dug deeper, I realized someone inside was rewriting history.”

Steve’s eyes narrow. “You mean they framed her.”

Fury nods once. “Someone high up. Very high. Someone with enough clearance to not only access her files but alter them. Strip away every trace of the operation.”

Tony laughs bitterly. “So that’s it? You just disappear? Hide away and let her take the fall?”

“I’ve been tracking them,” Fury snaps, his voice finally breaking through the ice. “Every senator, every agency name. Someone is pulling the strings from within, and if I stayed in the open, I’d be next. They wanted me quiet. So I gave them what they wanted—just long enough to find out who’s really behind this.”

“And did you?” Steve asks. “Did you find them?”

Fury exhales, turning to one of the monitors and tapping a few keys. A screen flickers on. Photos. Redacted files. Surveillance stills. “Not all of them. But enough to start drawing lines. A name keeps popping up—General Claiborne. Tied to funding black ops, shell companies, and, conveniently, the person who gave Ross the go-ahead to pursue Y/N without a trial.”

Sam leans in. “That’s how they did it. They made it look like she flipped.”

“Because they needed a scapegoat,” Tony mutters. “And she was the perfect one.”

There’s a long beat of silence. Steve runs a hand through his hair. “You should’ve told us, Fury.”

“I couldn’t risk it,” Fury says, looking at him now. “I knew if I told you, you’d tell her. And if she knew… she’d go straight to them. She’d walk into the fire just to prove herself.”

“She did walk into the fire,” Tony says, eyes hard. “And you let her burn.”

Fury doesn’t respond.

“And then Ross,” Steve says darkly. “He didn’t believe a damn thing we said. The proof, the testimonies, the files—he called it a setup.”

Fury’s jaw clenches. “Because he’s in on it. He’s part of the cover-up.”

Tony slams a fist on the table. “You know what Maximoff did in that meeting? She threatened to tear the whole system down if they laid another hand on her.”

Fury looks up at that. Something flickers behind his eye.

“She stood between Y/N and the entire government,” Steve says quietly. “She didn’t care about protocol. About diplomacy. But you? You are a coward, you used her for your own good. And throw her at the wolves when you didn’t need her.”

Fury lowers his head and doesn’t say anything. He knows they are right. But he can’t admit it, not to them.

Tony moves closer again, quieter this time. “We need to end this. If you have any intel that can clear her name, you give it to us. Right now.”

Fury nods. “Everything I’ve got is in this bunker. Names. Contacts. Locations. I’ll upload it all.”

Steve looks at him. “You’re coming with us.”

“I will,” Fury says. “But first, we tie the noose. This goes beyond Y/N. It goes to the core of what’s left of S.H.I.E.L.D., and maybe even deeper.”

Sam looks at the screen. “Then we find Claiborne.”

“And anyone else standing in the way of clearing her name,” Tony says.

⸻

Back at the farm, the kitchen is warm, filled with the scent of rosemary and roasted garlic. The windows let in golden evening light, casting soft shadows across the counter where you stand beside Wanda, sleeves rolled up, carefully slicing carrots for the stew. It should feel like peace. Like home. But there’s something restless under your skin. You try to ignore it—try to focus on the rhythm of the knife, the feel of the cutting board under your fingers.

Wanda hums beside you, soft and melodic, something Sokovian and low. Her hair is up, her face flushed from the heat of the stove, and when she leans over to stir the pot, her arm brushes yours. You close your eyes for a second and let yourself feel it. Warmth. Familiarity. Love.

But then the knife slips.

It’s the tiniest thing. Just a slip. Just a line of red across your palm.

And the world collapses.

You don’t hear the knife clatter to the floor. You don’t hear Wanda say your name. You don’t feel the kitchen anymore.

It all fades.

The scent of rosemary is gone. The golden light from the window collapses into a flickering, sterile blue. You blink, but your vision blurs at the edges—walls melt away, replaced with icy concrete and blood-stained steel. The air thickens, colder, harder to breathe. You can hear the hum of the fluorescent lights above you. The metallic clink of chains you haven’t worn in weeks. The soft shuffle of boots echoing in the hall.

You’re back there.

You’re back there.

You see the knife in your hand, stained red, and suddenly it’s not a kitchen knife anymore—it’s a scalpel, a tool, an extension of their hands. You look down at your bleeding palm and everything tilts. Your stomach churns. The cut—small, innocent—burns like acid. Pain flares behind your eyes, and a low whimper slips from your throat.

You’re slipping under.

You don’t even realize Wanda is talking to you.

“Detka?” she says softly. “You okay?”

Your head snaps up. Your eyes lock on hers—but you don’t see her. You don’t recognize her. You see someone wearing her face, standing in your cell, speaking in her voice. It’s a hallucination. It’s a trap. They’ve done this before—used her face to break you down.

Your breath goes shallow. Your hand tightens around the handle of the knife.

“Don’t come any closer,” you whisper, eyes wide. “I swear, I’ll use it.”

Wanda freezes, her blood running cold.

“Y/N,” she says carefully, her voice soft, terrified, “baby, it’s me. It’s Wanda. Look at me. You’re not there anymore.”

You take a step back, trembling. “No. No, this is wrong. This isn’t real. You’re not her. You’re not Wanda. She’s dead.”

She chokes on a breath. “No—no, she’s not. I’m right here. I’ve always been here. Please, baby—please come back to me.”

But your eyes are wild, lost, flicking to the corners of the room like you’re expecting someone to come in and drag you away. You can’t hear her. You can’t feel the floor beneath you, or the warmth in the air. You can’t remember the farm, or the kitchen, or her touch.

Your hand shakes, and you raise the knife, pointing it at her, voice trembling, cracked with panic. “Stop it. Stop lying to me. Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

“I’m Wanda,” she whispers, tears in her eyes now, hands shaking. “Please, Y/N. Please remember me.”

You take another step back. “I don’t know who you are. The real Wanda would never be here. She’s gone. She left. She never came.”

And something in her breaks.

Her voice wavers, but she doesn’t step back. “No. I didn’t leave you. I fought for you. I died for you. I searched the world for you. And I’d do it again.”

“I don’t believe you!” you scream, the sound ragged, barely human. “You’re not her! You’re just something they built in my head to break me again. You’re not real. You’re not real.”

She’s shaking now. Her eyes burn red at the edges, not with power—but with pain. Her hands hover, helpless. “Please,” she begs, voice raw. “Please don’t do this. Please come back to me. I can’t lose you again.”

But you don’t hear her. You’re too far gone.

You’re in the cell. You’re bleeding. You’re alone.

You don’t even see Natasha enter until it’s too late.

She freezes in the doorway.

Blood on the floor. Your hand clenched white around the knife. Wanda’s trembling frame, standing inches away—her hands raised in surrender, eyes brimming with tears. Your voice cracking with panic as you scream that this isn’t real, that Wanda is dead, that none of this is real.

And Natasha—

She breaks.

You don’t see it, but Wanda does. The subtle stagger in her step. The way her eyes go wide with horror before she forces herself forward. This is not the battlefield. This is not a mission. This is you.

And she couldn’t protect you.

“Y/N,” she says softly, voice trembling with something she’s never let herself feel in front of you: grief. “It’s me. It’s Nat.”

You spin, wild and disoriented, and you point the knife toward her, too. But Natasha doesn’t flinch. She moves a step closer.

You blink at her, confused, flickering between timelines—unsure if she’s real or another ghost conjured to torment you.

You flinch at the sound.

“No—stay away—Don’t touch me!”

Natasha’s heart cracks in two. She swallows, her eyes burning, and crouches down slowly, holding your gaze.

She moves fast. Her hand wraps around the back of your neck, firm and practiced, just enough pressure to disarm, to bring you down. You try to fight, a choked cry escaping your throat, but your body gives in.

And before the black takes you, you hear her whisper:

“I’ve got you.”

Then you fall.

And Natasha—

She sinks to the floor beside you once you’re out. The knife clatters uselessly away. Your blood stains her hands as she holds them to your chest, steadying your shallow breaths. Her forehead drops to yours, and she presses her eyes shut.

Wanda collapses beside her, arms wrapped around herself, unable to stop shaking.

“I should’ve protected her,” Natasha chokes. “I promised her I would.”

“You did,” Wanda whispers, her voice barely audible. “You still are.”

But Natasha doesn’t believe it.

Not when the person she swore to protect lies unconscious on the floor, after nearly forgetting her own name.

⸻

The night is quiet.

Too quiet.

It shouldn’t feel like this—this stillness should be peaceful, comforting. But to Wanda and Natasha, it feels like a silence forged from something broken. Something spilled open that neither of them has been able to stitch back together.

You’re still asleep on the couch, breathing slow and shallow. The bandage on your hand has been redressed, and your body has stopped trembling, but your face carries the ghost of what happened. Wanda sits beside you, curled in on herself, her fingers intertwined with yours. Her eyes haven’t left your face in over an hour.

Natasha stands by the window, arms crossed over her chest, jaw tight. She hasn’t said much—not since she brought you down. Not since she watched the person she’d sworn to protect shatter in front of her.

“I almost didn’t recognize her,” Wanda whispers.

Her voice is hoarse. It’s the first time she’s spoken in minutes, and the sound of it cuts through the quiet like a blade.

“She looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I was the thing hurting her. She thought I was part of it, Nat.”

Natasha turns slowly, her face pale, strained. “I saw.”

“She pointed a knife at me,” Wanda says, almost to herself. “And I didn’t even care. I just wanted her to see me again. I didn’t care if she hurt me. I just wanted her to know I was real.”

The silence stretches. Natasha walks over to the kitchen island and leans on it heavily, her voice quieter now.

“I’ve seen people break before,” she murmurs. “Hell, I’ve broken before. But that… what she went through, what HYDRA did to her—I wasn’t there, and I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

Wanda looks at her, eyes wide and red, almost glowing with emotion. “You couldn’t have done anything.”

“I know,” Natasha says, then shakes her head. “But that doesn’t stop the guilt. Doesn’t stop the part of me that wishes I had found her sooner. That I had ripped those bastards apart before they did this to her.”

Wanda swallows. Her voice shakes. “She’s terrified of me sometimes. Like I’m a dream she doesn’t trust. I don’t know how to reach her when she’s like that.”

“You stay,” Natasha says softly. “That’s how. You stay and you love her. Even when she can’t see you.”

They fall into silence again, both of them watching you breathe, their hearts heavy and twisted in their chests.

⸻

You stir in your sleep. The world feels foggy when you start to wake, and the first thing you see is Wanda—curled beside you on the couch, still holding your hand, her head resting against the armrest. Her lips are slightly parted in sleep, lashes damp from tears.

She looks like she hasn’t slept at all.

Your eyes sting.

Memories slam into you with cruel force—blood on your hand, the knife, her face, the fear in her voice when you didn’t recognize her. The way your voice shook when you asked her who she was. The way you almost hurt her.

A sob claws its way up your throat before you can stop it.

Wanda wakes instantly.

Her eyes find yours, and she’s on her knees beside you in seconds, brushing hair from your face, cradling your cheeks in her palms.

“Hey, hey,” she whispers. “I’m here. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

“I hurt you,” you gasp, choking on the words. “I didn’t recognize you. I—God, Wanda, I thought you were part of it. I thought you were just… in my head.”

She shakes her head fiercely, her hands trembling as they cup your face. “You didn’t hurt me. You were scared. You were in a place you didn’t choose to be.”

“I’m broken,” you whisper. “I don’t even know how to stop this. I keep going back there, and I don’t know how to come back sometimes. I can’t do this, Wanda. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not hurting me,” she says, her voice cracking. “You’re here. You’re trying. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

You press your forehead against hers, the tears falling freely now.

“I want to get better,” you whisper. “I want to be okay. For you. For Natasha. For me. But I’m not ready to go back. Not to the city, not to the compound. I can’t face the world right now.”

Wanda’s breath catches. “What do you need?”

You look at her then, really look at her—eyes soft with love, with heartbreak, with the kind of devotion that could level buildings. You reach for her hand and intertwine your fingers.

“I want to stay here. Somewhere like this. Somewhere far from everything. I want us to start over. I want a life with you. Just us. I want to build something with you. A place that isn’t haunted.”

Wanda’s lips part. Her eyes search yours, and you see it—the flood of emotion, the sheer weight of it.

“You want us to leave?” she breathes.

“No,” you whisper. “I want us to begin. I want to move to a farm nearby. Just you and me. I want mornings in the quiet. I want to fall asleep beside you without fear. I want to find myself again. And I want to do it with you.”

Wanda exhales, trembling, and pulls you into her arms. You bury yourself in her warmth, letting the pieces of you find something solid to rest against.

“I would follow you anywhere,” she murmurs into your hair. “If this is what you need… then we’ll build it. Together. From scratch.”

You close your eyes. For the first time in what feels like years, the future doesn’t terrify you.

You can still feel the bruises. The scars. The trauma clinging to your bones.

But in Wanda’s arms, you can also feel something else.

Hope.

A beginning.

Tag list: @seventeen-x @womenarehotsstuff @redhoodte @ayrtonwilbury @justyourwritter69 @casquinhaa @womenarehotsstuff @justarandomreaderxoxo @yelldontwhisper @raven-ss @chickenlittlsblog @username23345 @justyourwritter69 @ayrtonwilbury

[dearyanderenewspaper]

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[pompomchihuahua]

So, I've seen a Twitter thread making the rounds about Yuichirou being in the right for not trusting Amane which you can read here. Overall, I think it nicely covered why Yuichirou was so "mean" to her: a strange woman shows up at their home trying to recruit two vulnerable 11-year-old boys who just lost their parents. She starts talking about demons and them being descended from swordsmen and being able to save people and in Muichirou's hopeful little heart it strikes a chord.

But Yuichirou says that he's certain she's just going to use them, that she's plotting something, which, from a story telling perspective, is an interesting seed to plant in the viewers mind.

What I mainly want to focus on in this thread is Kagaya Ubuyashiki, as he is the one who ultimately sends Amane to recruit the Tokitou twins (though, yes, she is complicit in the recruitment of child soldiers. The average age of soldiers in 1912 Japan was 17-20 not 11).

Putting aside that he ends up recruiting Muichirou anyway after he's made almost impossibly more vulnerable (just lost his last remaining family, critically injured, just lost his memories and also, once again, an 11 year old CHILD being coerced by an adult into fighting mythical monsters) Kagaya has a way of appearing to the Hashira at their most vulnerable moments to recruit them (aside from Rengoku who was basically born and raised into the role which is a whole other can of worms).

Another thing I'd like to point out is the cruelty and impracticality of final selection, something that is exemplified perfectly with Sabito. How many slayers with the potential to do something great's lives were wasted in final selection? Considering the sheer amount that goes in and how few come out and the lack of any kind of age limit, I'm going to guess quite a few. Why exactly is the system set up like this?

They essentially set up a demon buffet featuring children as the main course. Did they know about the demon growing out of control on the final selection grounds? Most likely, and if not that's highly irresponsible to not at least monitor your supposed testing grounds.

Why not have them fight against other, higher-level slayers? If they fail the test, they'd be sent back into training or dismissed entirely instead of just... killed. And Ubuyashiki seems fine with this! And I'm truly curious- he mentions memorizing the names of every slayer that dies in the line of duty, but does that include the dozens of people that don't even get to become official slayers because they die in the very baffling final selection meat grinder?

I'm getting off track.

What I mean is that Ubuyashiki is shown to have questionable moral decision-making when it comes to the pursuit of defeating Muzan: it seems his goal is to kill Muzan at all costs.

Later, Muzan says this: "That schemer! Like a viper, his rage and hatred toward me... was coiling inside his pitch-black heart!"

As the viewer we're, of course, meant to take this with a grain of salt. We know Ubuyashiki didn't have a "pitch-black heart," but I think there's a grain of truth to be found in Ubuyashiki harboring rage and hatred toward Muzan.

We know the reason the Ubuyashiki clan started to hunt Muzan in the first place was to save themselves from the curse (and along the way I think they genuinely believed it was for the greater good as well).

But I think it sets Ubuyashiki up as the perfect morally ambiguous foil to Muzan. Yes, he is supposed to represent humanity, but what is more human than the endless moral struggle between the greater good and what's right for the individual? Ubuyashiki points out that in the thousands of years of Muzan's existence, the corps has never been wiped out but this is because the corps inherently preys on those who are at their most vulnerable. It is built on the back of tragedy.

Everything down to even just their life span is meant to be equal but opposite from Muzan's immortality to the Ubuyashiki's ephemeral life spans. Even their clothing choice, with Muzan picking darker colors and Ubuyashiki clad in white. Muzan is beautiful and unmarred while Kagaya is consumed by the curse of their bloodline yet their appearance is described as "twin-like" in the Kimetsu extras. Yet they are also equal, once again returning to their supposedly identical features, they both have a tendency to appear to those that serve them at their most vulnerable.

This is not a "Kagaya is evil" post at the end of the day. This is a "Kagaya is not a morally pure character and that's a good thing" post. And, I think, had the author had more time, they would have explored this fully. We all know the ending was a tad bit rushed due to the author having a family emergency and I will never blame them for that, but just looking at the story they built even on that time crunch I can only imagine they narrative they could have built given unlimited time.

I feel like they could have explored Kagaya's character more which they set up as being Muzan's equal but opposite: equally scheming but thankfully on humanity's side. He had empathy for the children, yes, but he still, at the end of the day, used people at their most vulnerable to do what he couldn't on his own.

And I didn't even get to START on the implications of his magical "voice" and foresight powers, but this post is already so long that I'm gonna end it here.

TLDR: Ubuyashiki is so much more complex than your stock "Greater good" character. He's Muzan's equal but opposite force, conniving but empathetic, morally ambiguous. Had the author had more time, I feel this would have been explored in more depth.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Where Heroes Flew

When Florelia had gone to work today she had expected it to be a day like any other. She’d man her post in orbital control, direct cargo traffic from the spaceport on the surface of the planet to the orbital lanes in the upper atmosphere, and then head to her quarters for the night and binge some trans-system entertainment. She was hoping to catch some of the Dorgan Finals being played out on the surface. The matches had drawn in close to a billion offworlders to the event and was the largest gathering seen on Zenbara in decades.

She was just about to get up for her designated lunch break when she noticed something odd on her tracking monitor. One of the inbound ships was bypassing the waiting que for reentry and was attempting to skip ahead of the waiting ships for reentry.

Putting her headset back on, Florelia flipped through the communication channels until she had the channel for the marked ship.

“Inbound vessel DCN4, return to your position in que.” She transmitted.

No response.

“Inbound vessel DCN4, this is orbital control; return to your position in que immediately.”

Florelia wondered if the ships communicator was broken, but before she could call up an engineer to confirm the inbound vessel suddenly increased speed and began blowing past the que of waiting ships.

“DCN4 cut engines and respond immediately, this is your final warning.”

“You were given many warnings,” a strange voice came back, “and now we are the culmination of all your sins. We are the children of Nu’n and in his name we shall punish the nonbelievers and cleanse them from this universe.”

As the voice continued delivering their speech Florelia ran a scan of DCN4 to confirm its cargo. When the scan came back her eyes went wide and she slammed her fist into the panic button built into her console. Sirens began blaring as her supervisor came over as Florelia opened a direct line to orbital security.

“Security, apprehend ship DCN4 now!” Florelia shouted into her transmitter.

“What’s wrong?” her supervisor asked as he came up to her finally. Florelia turned to let him see her screen.

“I believe DCN4 is under the control of terrorist elements and is loaded with over 900 thousand tons of Genthi explosives.”

No sooner had the words left her mouth did her supervisor tap his com piece in his ear and shout, “Security move your asses now! Grab DCN4 and bring it to a halt.”

Entering in his command codes he then addressed the entire line of waiting ships still in que.

“Attention all vessels, evacuate the area immediately. Divert courses away from lane 71-93; repeat, all vessels evacuate the area immediately!”

Florelia watched on her scanner as the security ships left the station. She watched as they pushed their engines to the max to catch up to the rogue vessel but even at max speed they wouldn’t be able to catch it in time. Calculating the trajectory, the computer predicted that the terrorists were steering themselves directly towards the Dorgan Finals stadium on the planet below.

“Should we issue an evacuation for the stadium?” she asked her supervisor. To her surprise he shook his head.

“It wouldn’t matter. With that much explosives it’ll turn everything within a 500km radius into the world’s largest crater.”

Florelia couldn’t speak as the horror of the situation set in. The devastation about to unfold would be the worst terrorist attack in the known universe.

A sudden beep from her console made Florelia look back and see that while many of the other civilian vessels were scattering one ship had begun moving towards the terrorist ship.

“What in the niv’nar….”

Florelia brought up the information about the secondary contact and saw it was a human mining ship designated the “Jackdaw”.

“Orbital control to human vessel Jackdaw, what are you doing?” Florelia asked as she realigned the transmitter to communicate to the human ship. “You have been instructed to evacuate the area.”

“I thought about it,” A young cheerful voice came back over the radio, “but my pappy taught me that when a robber comes at you you don’t show them the door; you show them your arm.”

Not understanding what the human was talking about she looked up to see the live camera feeds being displayed on the main monitors. DCN4 was long and narrow, while the human Jackdaw was bulky and looked as if it had been welded together with scrap metal.

It looked as if the Jackdaw was going to block DCN4 but as soon as the cargo ship drew close the mining ship ignited its engines and lazily drifted above the cargo vessel as it blew by. As it passed underneath the mining ship Florelia watch as a dozen compartments opened up on the mining ship and grappling arms the size corvettes shot out and latched on to DCN4.

The arms soon went taut and the Jackdaw ignited its engines to full in a dazzlingly bright display of light.

Like a fisherman wrangling a mighty sea creature, the Jackdaw tried to pull the terrorist ship back into orbit and give the security ships a chance to disable the vessel before it could carry out its task. Every set of eyes in the control room was locked to the main monitor as the DCN4 engines burned brighter and the ship veered left and right to try and shake off the Jackdaw.

The security ships had almost made it to DCN4 when several of the grappling arms tore away chunks of DCN4’s hull. Each of the security ships swung to avoid the debris but were struck by the whiplash of the grappling arms and exploded in a cloud of burnt metal. To the horror of orbital control one of the grappling arms swung back and damaged a few of the Jackdaw’s engines as well.

With renewed fervor the terrorist ship began plunging once more into the atmosphere with the Jackdaw still holding on with what few grappling arms remained. Though it refused to let go of the terrorist ship, it was a struggle it could not win.

“Orbital control to Jackdaw, you’ve done everything you can; disengage and get out of there.” Florelia transmitted to the Jackdaw.

“Not everything,” came the reply over the radio, “I got one last trick up my sleeve.”  

Florelia was going to ask what they meant when the Jackdaw began retracting the grappling arms while they still held on to DCN4. Slowly the arms pulled the two vessels closer and closer together as new energy warning sirens started off.

“That crazy bastard’s going to make a jump.” Florelia heard her supervisor say in disbelief.

“Jackdaw, if you attempt to make a jump in orbit-“ Florelia began but the human captain cut her off.

“It’s the last trick I got to play lassie.” They said in their chipper tone.

“There’s no guarantee you’ll make it out of the jump intact.” She persisted. “No ship has ever withstood a jump while in a gravity well.”

“First time for everything I suppose.”

The two ships were nearly touching hulls as the Jackdaw’s jump drive neared full power.

“Why are you doing this? You don’t know this world or these people; why give your life for them?”

To her surprise the human captain laughed over the coms.

“When someone’s in trouble you don’t stop to ask for details, you just help them.”

With that the two ships hulls finally touched and the Jackdaw ignited its jump drive. For a moment both ships blurred in and out of the atmosphere as DCN4 desperately tried to free itself from the mining ship’s grasp.

In a final bright flash the two ships made the jump out of the atmosphere, leaving behind a trail of scrap metal that slowly burned away as it fell to the planet below. To the public below it looked as if a series of elaborate fireworks were going off to celebrate the day’s events while those in orbit held a silent vigil for the unknown human captain who had just saved billions of lives.

For all the barbarity the human race has been known for it was easy to forget that there were still those amongst their people who would lay down their lives for strangers without ever needing a word of thanks.